Chapter Text
Vox has gutted the TV again. Better than the fridge, but no less annoying to come home to.
“Let me guess, nothing good was on?” Valentino asks.
Vox scowls down at the parts littering the entire floor. “It's garbage.”
“We have a remote, Voxxy. You could turn it off.” He walks to the television demon and leans down to hold his thin wrists, then slides his hands up to carefully maneuver the screwdriver out of his hand. Vox’s other hand is closed into a fist and Valentino has to gently prod at it before Vox opens it and lets a few screws fall into his palm.
Valentino places the screws and the screwdriver down on the floor next to the gutted CRT TV. When he looks up, he sees Vox is frowning and watching him.
“I brought groceries,” Valentino says. “Enough for sandwiches.”
Vox gives him a look that says ‘and what do you want me to do about it?’
Valentino rolls his eyes. He goes back to the door where he left the plastic bag of food he stole from a john’s house. It’s just enough that they wouldn’t notice it was gone. He goes to the kitchen and spaces out four slices of bread on the counter. He spreads an assortment of leftover takeout condiments onto them, then slaps on the bits of meat and what passes as vegetables. While he closes the sandwiches, he notices Vox standing at the entrance of the kitchen, still watching him quietly.
He plates the sandwiches and puts them on the table between them. Vox sits down and starts eating as Valentino fetches two water bottles from the fridge. They’re not as cold as he expects.
“Was there another blackout?” Valentino asks. “There was one at work. I wasn’t sure if it was just that street.”
Vox thinks about it. “…No,” he replies. “No, there wasn’t.”
“Oh, good.”
Valentino eyes the blinking time on the stove and microwave that didn’t match the clock on the wall, telling him otherwise.
Vox follows his gaze, and his mouth does a weird twitch when he notices. The claws of one hand start to scratch at the wood of the table, adding to the mess he’s been making the past few days. The ratty sleeve of his dress shirt slides down his arm, showing off his wrist – the bone of it is painfully visible.
He felt delicate when he held him earlier.
Valentino isn’t sure if that’s normal for Vox.
It might be. His head is flat and fragile. Half of his screen is busted up and clumsily taped together that Valentino can only see one large, expressive eye. Vox picks at the tape occasionally, when he forgets why it’s there. More than once Valentino has come back to him picking up his own shards off the floor.
He doesn’t know why it isn’t healing. It’s been a while.
“Eat,” Valentino tells him, when Vox shifts as if to stand up – probably to fix the time.
Vox looks back down at the sandwich and picks it up, taking a big bite. Valentino picks at his own slowly, making sure Vox doesn’t get distracted again. When Vox finishes, Valentino swallows down the rest of his and chugs down the water. He nudges Vox’s bottle with the back of his hand until Vox picks it up and drinks. It’s hesitant at first, then eager as he realizes how thirsty he really is.
There’s a distant explosion and Valentino winces. Vox’s eye widens.
“What was that?” Vox asks. He stands up and goes to the window to pull back the curtain. The window is boarded up. “Val! What is this? What’s happening?”
Valentino gets up and joins him, then shows him the gap in the boards to peek out. Outside is an empty street, but there’s smoke and fire in the distance.
“We’re fine, Voxxy.” Valentino taps at a sheet of paper taped to the wall. “Shit like that happens in the Doomsday District.”
Vox’s eye goes over the paper that reads, ‘You’re in the Doomsday District’ and then at another, ‘Vox, Stay Inside.’
“Why are we in the Doomsday District?”
“We live here,” Valentino replies.
Vox scowls. “That isn’t funny.”
Valentino hums. True. Their place isn’t exactly a tower. It’s not even their place, though Valentino has decided it is. The previous owner of the building is currently tied up in a someone else’s basement.
“It’s only for a little while,” Valentino promises. Then they’ll move to the next house, likely very soon. But always in the Doomsday District. It’s… the safest place, nowadays.
There’s another explosion, farther, this time.
“What was that?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Valentino says. “Are you still hungry?”
“…A little.” Vox gives the window a concerned look. He reads the sign and his frown deepens.
Valentino opens the fridge. The lunch he had left for Vox, a small container of tuna salad, is untouched. Forgotten, likely. He pulls it out and places it in front of Vox, who has sat back down and is poking at his empty plate. When Valentino hands him a spoon, he digs in eagerly, explosions forgotten.
Valentino goes back to the living room where he’s draped his lounging clothes on the couch. He changes into them and tosses his skimpy slip dress, soaked panties and heels to the side. He’ll clean it up later. Or Vox will – sometimes he has enough presence of mind to do that. Other times Valentino will find their laundry in the broken dishwasher.
When he goes back to the kitchen, Vox has finished his meal and looks at him as if noticing him for the first time.
“What are we having for dinner?” Vox asks. Still hungry, then. Valentino doesn’t blame him. He’s hungry too.
“We had sandwiches.”
His eyes narrow. “No. The tuna salad was for lunch.”
“Ah, right. Well, we can hold off for a little bit, yeah? Til I figure something out.” He picks up the dishes on the table and the empty container and dumps them in the sink.
Vox blinks, and something like shame flickers across his expression. “Val, I can work. Help bring more money in.”
“Not right now,” Valentino says easily. “You’re hurt. We can’t have people seeing your pretty mug all fucked up. Someone might take advantage.”
Vox’s hand goes up to the tape over half his screen. “Right…” He lowers his hand and his eye drifts to the living room. He stiffens and then cries out, “What happened to the TV!”
Valentino’s lips quirk. “Damn, that looks awful. Think you can fix it?”
Vox darts towards the TV, hands running over its shell, sparking. “I think so. Everything is here.”
“Good, I’d hate to miss my stories,” Valentino says with a chuckle.
Vox gives a determined nod and sits on the floor to start piecing the television back together. He does it so quickly and easily that Valentino wonders if he does remember how often he takes it apart, or if he’s always been good with the technology.
Valentino steps over the mess of wires and metal and goes to lounge on the couch. He reaches for a duffel bag resting at its side and rummages through it until he pulls out a carton of cigarettes. Only four left. Fuck. Before he can rifle through the bag again for a lighter, Vox crawls towards him and lifts a claw. Grinning, Valentino tilts the cigarette towards him. A spark shoots out and lights it. If he indulges in his imagination, he could almost imagine the spark was heart shaped.
“Thank you, baby,” Valentino says sweetly.
Vox is pleased. He goes back to the TV and begins taking apart what he’s put together so far – then quickly puts it together again when he remembers that’s what he’s supposed to be doing. Sparks flicker between his antenna in embarrassment and Valentino pretends not to notice.
He finishes his cigarette and flicks the bud onto the table, then leans his head onto the armrest and closes his eyes. He’s not quite ready for bed yet but damn if he isn’t tired already. He’s not sure how much time has passed when Vox’s voice makes him stir.
“Got it,” Vox says. Valentino opens his eyes. “Oh, shit. Were you sleeping?”
“Nah. Whatcha got?” Valentino asks.
As a reply, Vox pulls out the TV remote and flicks the TV on.
Nothing is on, of course.
Just static.
Vox frowns and fiddles with the antenna. When nothing happens, he pushes buttons and twists knobs. Nothing.
It’s been nothing for weeks.
“Shit, I don’t know why it isn’t working,” Vox says. He gives it a smack with the palm of his hand. When that fails to give any results, he looks around for his screwdriver. “Maybe I can take a look inside.”
Valentino shakes his head fondly. “Ah, don’t make a mess, Voxxy. Maybe the stations are down.”
“All of them?” Vox asks doubtfully.
Before he can reply, Valentino is interrupted by another explosion.
“What was—” Vox cuts himself off as he remembers where they are at the last second. His mouth clamps shut, and he goes back to fiddling with the TV’s knobs, though Valentino can tell he’s already given up on it.
That explosion sounded closer than usual. They may have to move sooner than he thought.
With a disgruntled huff, Valentino sits up and drags the duffel bag onto his lap to see what’s inside already. It’s usually packed and ready to go in case they need to drop everything and leave, but sometimes Vox gets curious and pulls everything out. Usually he’ll put everything back, not always in the same place.
It seems he had gone through it at some point since Valentino last checked. A few items are out of place. Most of the larger items, clothing and a thin blanket, are stuffed at the bottom, but a few small items and folded pieces of paper are scattered at the top. Unbothered, Valentino tucks them into their proper places.
He pauses over two of them.
One is a small, flat device. A modern phone. No service. From what he understands, no one has ‘service’ anymore, so the device is just an oversized pocket watch when he remembers to charge it. He still messes with it, sometimes, marveling at how his fingers glide over the screen expertly. Letting his fingers move habitually led to him discovering the camera and gallery. He’s taken a few sexy pictures of his thumbs but other than that, the gallery is suspiciously empty.
He keeps it around in case service comes back on. He’s not sure what he’ll do when it does. He’s hoping there will be answers, but…
Valentino looks at the second item. It’s a folded-up poster he discovered back when all of this began. He unfolds it, wincing at the white creases that threaten to rip it from how often he folds and unfolds it.
The poster is of three apparently very well-known Overlords.
Vox is front and center – the leader.
It’s obvious in the poster, but hard to imagine.
The Vox he knows can hardly be trusted to microwave a meal for himself without supervision. He thinks it might be the damage to his head – but he’s looked and only his screen is damaged. He’s hardly an expert on technology, especially now. Vox’s head looks more like the phone than the TV in the room in his opinion. Vox insists his head is a television, though he doesn’t know why it’s flat either. Some days, he freaks out about it.
Next to Vox is himself. A healthier, stronger version of himself looking smug and sexy as fuck. His and Vox’s arms are looped together, and they both have the nastiest grins on their faces.
Matching.
They’re together. They’re strong. They’re. In. Charge.
And on the other side of Vox…
“Can I sit?” Vox asks.
Valentino moves his legs to give Vox room on the couch. Once he’s settled in, he stretches his legs back over him. Vox’s hand goes up to rest on his thigh, his other playing with the hem of his shorts carefully. It’s instinctive for Vox and comfortably familiar to Valentino in a way that has him wondering what on earth they used to be to each other when they weren’t posing for posters.
“Who’s that with us?” Vox asks apprehensively, looking at the poster carefully. He’s worried he’s forgotten something obvious again. Sometimes he doesn’t recognize himself in the poster at all.
Valentino touches the image of the dark-skinned woman whose arm looped over Vox’s shoulders as she leaned into him. She’s small, but gorgeous, with big, beautiful hair. Valentino can almost feel it under his fingers – can almost feel his fingers twisting through it, braiding it.
“I have no idea.”