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He hates Valentino’s ‘studio’. The place smells bad and it’s full of touchy strangers with a strange sense of what can be considered properly dressed.
Vox’s gaze drifts toward Angel Dust on the bed, currently a pink-and-white head beneath a mass of writhing bodies. His upper lip curls, but that’s a stimulated sensation, since his face doesn’t physically move anymore.
“Interested~? He’s a real go-getter, you know. I’m sure he wouldn’t be against keeping you company, Mister Bossman~” Valentino purrs. He takes another drag on his cigarette, and of course he blows the smoke at Vox, despite being told not to. That’s exactly why he keeps doing it. “You do have all the pieces down there, hm? He can be creative, but there are some limits to his imagination. And his acting. His holes, not so much.”
Not so much now, because Val got to him first, and by God he wrings every penny out of his headliners. Vox wrenches his gaze away from whatever the fuck is happening onstage and focuses on Val again. “I’m not into…any of that…” he adds, with a dismissive rotation of his wrist. Deviant crap? Is that a fitting term? “Besides, I’m not a—”
Yeah, he definitely doesn’t know a term for that that won’t piss Valentino off. He learned early that the limits of proper society aren’t a concern down here, not to those already forsaken, but he just isn’t…one of those. It’s a step too far to think of that as normal. He’s caught rotating his hand uselessly as he tries to pluck out a word that isn’t along the lines of what people used when he was alive, nothing like deviant, freak, homo—
And Val can pick up what he’s implying anyway. Mess avoided. He grins wolfishly, and leans in close enough for the smell of his cigarette to become nauseating. “Down here, I think that makes you pretty queer, Voxxy baby~” Another puff of crimson smoke floods Vox’s vents. “You wanna be picky, Vox? We’re already cast out of Eden, but you still don’t want the fruit. Is that right?”
He knows when he’s being worked.
It doesn’t stop him nodding. Half of the Pride Ring knows that his tech probably doesn’t just exist to virtuously make their lives better, and they still buy it. Valentino’s whole business is built on indulging what you know isn’t good for you. Not like it can kill them, after all. With Hell, there’s a certain collective surrender to their vices, and with it, a collective understanding.
May as well take the fruit, if God’s already turned His back on you.
“Val, fuck, Val, wait, shit—!”
“Such a mouth on you, il mio fulmine~ If only you could make better use of it, hm?”
The minute the penthouse doors are shut, Valentino is on him, and really he thinks it quite admirable that he lasts that long without doing anything. Virgins are always the cutest before their first. Vox hasn’t outright said anything to confirm it, but he really doesn’t need to, the way he was staring at Angel. It’s a revulsed fascination that Valentino can recognize in a second flat by now. Voxxy died a good ten-twenty years before he did, and he’s carting around a fucking CRT monitor on his shoulders, as if Valentino needs more cues. They’re a fascinating breed, these straight-laced types. Desperate not to give in to those thoughts; the exact thing they’ve wanted since they were young enough to just start to consider holding hands and old enough to know boys couldn’t do it in public. They never take much convincing, and it’s inspiriting to know Val hasn’t lost his touch on that front. It might be satisfaction at a job well done or it might be plain narcissism that sends a thrill down his spine, but Val doesn’t care to enquire and Vox is currently pressed to a wall making zero complaints, so it isn’t a compelling dilemma.
Vox’s screen is currently tinged pink, which is such a cute look on him against that black pinstripe suit. Ideally, they should be kissing right about now, showing off what Valentino can do without having the poor thing come in his slacks, but the unusual physiology he’s working with makes that a difficult prospect. He just focuses more of his attention on the other’s neck, on his shoulders, tracing where thick wires transition into smooth gunmetal-grey skin, thrumming with the promise of lightning. Maybe they could look into those electrical powers later. Vox’s construction is singular among sinners. But unusual is what Val caters to, and to his own credit, he’s always been creative.
Not that he imagines that will be needed tonight. He slides a leg between Vox’s, sets his lower hands on the other’s hips, and already the poor thing is shivering with need, wrists straining against Valentino’s hold.
Ah, well. Those who say not to mix business with pleasure are clearly in the wrong line of work.
Eventually, and yet surprisingly fast, him and Valentino sniping at each other evolves into Valentino calling him Voxxy-baby with less sarcasm, and adding a whole host of Italian pet names to the mix, and from there they settle into something positively domestic, by Hell's standards. It's still not a relationship. Valentino isn't a monogamous type, and Vox wasn't expecting any changes on that front, either, because he's not a moron. In public, they take care of each other only as far as their joint business demands it. There's no additional protection on either end; if they're strong enough to survive, then they're fine on their own. If not, then they won't be of any use to each other. They both go in with that understanding, and it suits Vox just fine. He doesn't need someone standing over him in public. Doesn't need to be seen as the magician's assistant, the pretty face with nothing beneath. He isn't arm candy.
Valentino doesn’t take it personally. Makes sense. He has a million sparkly, made-up airheads to hang off him like that. He only has one business partner: someone who actually makes the jokes right back at him. Someone who sits with him instead of on him. They share knowing looks in front of certain demons, and Vox feels like part of that discussion, not flittering at its edge and waiting to be admitted entry.
Most surprising of the new developments, Valentino starts dropping by the server room just to talk. Vox, in turn, makes a point to swing by if Val's in the main office, but he doesn't visit Valentino at his actual work-work. He hasn't lost his distaste for what that studio entails, but now that sentiment is also entwined with an uglier, thorny feeling that digs into his gut whenever Valentino...takes a more active role in the proceedings.
It's not jealousy, because if what they have is a relationship, then shooting someone in the chest is unconventional open heart surgery.
Relationships don't exist in Hell anyway.
Well. That's not strictly true, and he knows it. The Goetia marry and make kids all the time. The imps and hellhounds they hire can go home to girlfriends or husbands or both.
Relationships don't exist in the Pride Ring, then.
He doesn't need that kind of thing getting in the way anyway. It’s a point of weakness that nobody shooting for an Overlord position can get away with. The existing Overlords don’t have relationships. Vox has checked and checked and checked again on every detail of their lives during his studies. Obsessed with the template of success. There have been a lot of Overlords in Hell’s history, even during the time when nobody was bothering to document anything. Which is most of Hell’s history before the last hundred years’ worth of sinners started showing up.
No surprise, none of the Overlords were ‘power couples’. Vox isn’t sure what his reaction should be to that, and so he notes the information and moves on. Partnerships don’t go far in Hell. Or at least, nobody’s made one work thus far. Only takes one exception to break a rule.
Vox's first extermination comes shortly after Valentino starts visiting. Neither of them are Overlords yet, which was Plan A for surviving their first purge.
They go to Vox’s Plan B. Overlords are immune to extermination. There's no way every exorcist coming down bothers to memorize the names and faces and locations of every Overlord, every time they change over, so it's looking the part that's important— something they both have plenty of practice in. They don't cower in some little bunker like most demons. They situate themselves in the penthouse suite, with all its shining glass panels, and both of them sit on the couch together, facing outward, pretending not to have noticed the black wings against the crimson sky. Vox grips his glass so hard there are deep cuts across its intricate pattern. Valentino turns a gun over in his hand, checking its every component twice, three, four times. They're barely an inch apart, but that space is crowded with tension, more electric than any of Vox's power could make it.
Playing Overlord wouldn't work if every demon tried it. It's a temporary measure. With any luck, they won't be playing Overlord by this time next year.
Black streaks past their window.
The glass bursts in Vox's hand. He hears the safety snap off on Val's gun.
But the exorcist doesn't stop its descent. Soon, it’s down in Pentagram City, another blur of wings and shining blade through the terrified populace below, and probably cutting up a considerable chunk of their workforce. But not through them. Neither of them are facing down an angelic spear.
Valentino tackles him to the sofa with an exuberant cheer.
They'll have to pick up the pieces in the morning, find out who survived the exorcists, find replacements for those who didn't. It'll be tedious, irritating work. Vox got blood on the couch somewhere, staining the pink fabric with electric blue.
They won’t be playing Overlord next year.
Velvette is the only one standing at the door when they step out in the morning.
She’s just standing there, phone in hand, and she doesn’t have the decency to even fake-cower at the sight of both of them together. It’s pretty disappointing, after spending considerable time working on their reputations.
“I want in,” she says, and Valentino laughs.
And that’s how the Vees truly begin, which seems like such an anticlimax. The first sinner to rock up to their door after extermination, winner-take-all.
The first sinner to step out into a street full of corpses and see opportunity, is what Vox notes, and he likes that sort of ruthlessness. In the end, being an Overlord isn’t some lofty ideal. It’s a business, a brand, and if you’re climbing to the top, you better be ready to step over some bodies. He isn’t sure if Val trusts his judgement or if the moth is just in an exceptionally good mood after yesterday’s events. Either way, the three of them don’t kill each other in the first week, and that’s an encouraging start.
“No to all of them.”
“Come on, Voxxy! I can’t win the game if you’re not even playing! Won’t you tell me? I’m sure we must have known something about each other in the human world. Maybe we’re star-crossed lovers, hmmm~?”
“Nobody.”
“It’s not impossible, Voxxy! I’m sure I saw you somewhere! Were you in movies, or were you in shows? Game shows? Infomercials. Talk shows. Weather forecast. What about—”
“Val.”
Ooh. That’s his volume up voice. His big, scary, ‘this is your final warning’ voice. It’s enough to make Valentino pipe down for a few seconds, but that doesn't mean his mind stops ticking over. There are computer fans whirring, too, and the blanket of electrical thrum that comes from plentiful machinery. Vox’s room is never silent, which he’s only noticing now that it should be. Valentino hums aloud in ‘thought’, takes a few steps around Vox’s desk, and wilfully ignores the irritated crackling of electricity across some of Vox’s sharper extremities. Instead he hums again, and slides backward until he’s perched on the edge of the other demon’s desk.
It seems weird to find paperwork in Vox’s office. Actual papers, that you could pick up. Valentino raises an eyebrow and picks a few up at random, shuffling through. Neat, easily legible handwriting on some of them, with rushed, looping scrawl on others. Velvette pays more attention to her reports than Valentino bothers with, because that’s what they have interns and the other disposables for, which neither of them has fully grasped or made good use of, in his own opinion. The papers are all dull anyway. Apparently what counts as noteworthy enough for a personal report for the Vees varies wildly. Vox doesn’t snatch the papers back like he used to, having long since learned that the fastest way to handle Val is to let him satiate himself and then move on to the next thing that catches his attention.
Some see it as a sign of a short attention span. Valentino prefers to think of it as using his time wisely.
Once the topic has cooled off, Valentino sets the papers back down and leans back a little. “Voxxy. Come on. You two know what I was like. Why don’t you ever tell us your stories~? Are they that scandalous?” he tries, prodding for a reaction with that taunting tone that a showman like him usually can’t resist.
The room falls into pseudo-silence again.
Vox doesn’t seem interested in breaking it. His eyes are on the report loosely laid across his hand, but his screen has always been expressive, and he has an interesting faraway look— one Valentino recognises on other sinners when they let themselves dwell on the past. The mouth has disappeared, which lends him a softer look than the usual shark-toothed grin. But he can still talk. It’s only a screen, after all, and Vox’s real speakers or whatever bizarre tech crap he has isn’t beholden to the expression projected. That’s probably the idea. Duplicity.
Valentino opens his mouth to prod again, now that the mood has lifted, but it’s not needed. There’s a low crackle from Vox’s speakers, like a sigh. Then he straightens his posture from where he was previously hunched over the desk so hard his screen was nearly parallel with its surface. “I mean it. I was…nobody. Ran some game shows. Presented the weather. Packed up and ran off to Hollywood with the big craze. Dropped dead in the studio before anything I did ever took off.”
He taps his claws on the table. Glass on steel. The deep furrows on each side of the desk tell which one is stronger. “No stories to tell. Will you stop asking now?”
Valentino’s grin spreads wider. “A desperate twenty-something in Los Angeles…Now I know we must have met before.”
“I’m pretty sure havin’ sex with Val on the regular is a form’a self-harm, Vox.”
His grip on his coffee tightens abruptly, and the paper cup goes to pieces like…well, like a piece of paper crap that was just punctured in every direction by five sharpened knives. Steaming coffee pours over his hand and he curses again, fishing around for a less-important memo to try and mop up the mess. “What the fuck are you talking about?” Vox hisses. That’s how Velvette knows she’s struck a nerve. It takes a lot for Vox to break things (on purpose), but him and Val is usually a nice chink in the armour to wedge her knife into. She doesn’t just do it for amusement, but she’d be lying if she said there’s no fun to be had.
“Look, we work together, the three of us, yeah?”
Vox begins one of his lecture-y replies, and Velvette jabs a finger into his screen. “All three of us. So if shite goes sour with you two, that fucks our business faster than Val can fold you over a—”
A loud error noise overtakes her words. “VELVETTE—”
She cackles and drops off his desk, landing easily on her feet. “I ain’t just bringin’ it up to fuck with ya—“ And boy is that just pulling a lot of weight today. “—it’s a genuine concern! For your business! What happens if you and your boytoy go south, eh? Do you have a plan? Askin’ for a friend, so don’t be a pissbaby about it, neither.”
“Either,” Vox corrects, because Velvette hates having her grammar corrected and it’s the least he can do after all of her sniping in the last few minutes. “And no, I don’t have a fucking plan, because it’s not gonna happen. Simple as. Val needs me. And I…”
Whatever the end of that sentence was going to be, it couldn’t be good. Needing Val in any sense, even purely business, was a weakness, and that wasn’t exactly a safe thing to expose to a business partner he’d barely known for a year. Wanting him around, even for the same purpose, was just the same. The silence has dragged on a tad too long. Vox shrugs and hopes it comes off as casual as he intended. “Me and Val have been business partners for a couple decades. Neither of us are going anywhere. So you can tell your friend, who you’re totally asking for, that we don’t need a backup plan."
The friend was Valentino.
He should have known that. It was a weird question for the new hire to ask.
Valentino’s fist crunches into his screen.
Vox reels back, one hand over his face, and feels something ooze between the cracks in the glass. It’s warm and buzzing with electricity.
And then he lunges forward and knocks Valentino’s tooth out.
Vox gets a flatscreen installed in the place of his old CRT monitor. Val gets a new tooth. They don’t tell Velvette anything, and she can think what she pleases. Some of the staff clean up in Vox’s apartment one night, when they’re out. Things are quiet for a while, between the two of them. Not overtly hostile, which both of them are familiar with and could probably navigate with ease—that’s what Hell is like.
A fucking finance meeting is the first olive branch. It’s the first time they’re forced to sit in the same room together for longer than a few minutes, and while every accountant around the table looks like they’d rather take their chances in a meat grinder than be in that meeting, the worst part is that weird fucking look on Valentino’s face, when he can fucking see Valentino’s face between clouds of smoke. But then…then fucking Val, who takes several minutes to count a half-dozen bills, starts needling him with questions. Finance questions. That’s too weird for his liking. Vox answers them, because apparently he’s the only one in this fucking company with his brain switched on.
Five stupid questions later, and he’s not just answering questions, he’s snapping at Valentino after every reply. Where does this profit margin come from? It’s magically housed in the fucking report that Vox knows Val didn’t bother reading, the lazy fucker, because he’s always left the real work to Vox while he goes off to play with his employees—
Employees slink away as the replies become more heated. The room clears out.
Val is out of his seat the minute the last demon leaves, crowding Vox against his seat, lower hands on the armrests with his upper pair cradling the new screen. “You’re so cute when you’re mad.”
And then, Val’s mouth is on his neck, and it’s like nothing ever changed.
Vox tips his head back and lets it happen.