Chapter Text
Sometime in the 1950s
The best days since he died, in Vincent's opinion, were those that he spent in the company of Alastor, the Radio Demon. Vincent himself was often busy with establishing himself and his company, but on the days when Alastor came calling? He hardly needed any coaxing to abandon his work to go cavorting and cause mayhem throughout the city, frequently leaving several murder scenes in their wake. They often ended up in a little bar not far from the center of the city where they spent hours getting drunk and would end the night at Vincent's apartment; laughing over everything and nothing, and just enjoying each other's company before eventually passing out on the couch.
Vincent spend many hours happily staring at Alastor's face, both listening to and excitedly talking about anything that crossed his mind. This was all well and good, was easily explained by his mind as simply enjoying the company of his best friend, but when Alastor would tease or offhandedly say something that flustered Vincent, he would turn away in embarrassment, screen flushing. Alastor, for his part, LOVED getting reactions out of him, and thus did so often.
It was on one of these occasions that the trouble started, as Vincent's eyes frantically searched for anything else to look at and landed on Alastor's hands. They were several drinks in at that point, and Alastor had just spouted something that Vincent immediately forgot except for the flustered reaction when he noticed them.
The hands. Alastor's hands. Smaller than his own; long, slender, and more delicate looking, but easily capable of the most brutal destruction. Without the claws, they would easily be classed as an artist or a pianist's hands. Vincent was immediately drawn to them in a way that he'd never admit to (he'd seen them before, and imagined them in many ways, and had ruthlessly squashed any thoughts of them as well as the thinking of the squashing. No evidence remained in his mind, so he insistently told himself. That the urges (what urges) never happened). Immediately upon seeing them, the forbidden urge to bite into the side of his hand rose higher in his mind, only barely suppressed by the last vestiges of his rational thinking, causing his screen to buffer in another wave of flustered embarrassment.
Alastor didn't even notice, too busy turning the conversation into expounding the virtues of radio, which allowed Vincent the moments needed to recover his composure and continue the night with the added awareness of Alastor's Hands and what they were doing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was months later that the two of them drunkenly stumbled through the door of Vincent's apartment, and less sat so much as fell onto the couch in a heap of giggling demons. As Vincent stared up at Alastor, who had maneuvered himself into sitting up and was now gesturing wildly with one hand while the other kept Vincent's head captive next to his leg, the now familiar urge finally broke though the defenses of rational thought. Vincent's hand crept closer without conscious input and drew Alastor's hand closer to his mouth, biting down gently in a soft hold that would leave only the lightest of teeth marks.
When Alastor noticed, Vincent had already fallen asleep, mouth still attached to Alastor's hand, and wearing he most peaceful expression that Alastor had ever seen on his face.
"Ah, the joys of cannibalism," Alastor thought as he too got comfortable and passed out where he lay. From that time on until their eventual falling out, Alastor attempted to include a confused and disgusted Vincent in his cannibalistic tendencies, including offering part of himself after noticing that the hand biting was becoming a habit.
~~~~~~~~~~~
Current Day
Whenever Vox happened to think of the urge to bite the hands of those he found attractive now, he was caught between two feelings. On the one hand, he'd found out some time ago that that urge was a courtship gesture from SHARKS, the COOLEST creature ever, and that made him happy to have something shared with his favorite animal on top of his other shark features. On the other hand, it reminded him of Alastor and the time(s) that he'd bitten onto his hand, and that made him feel a disgusting mix of sadness, embarrassment, and relief that Alastor had never figured out what it meant. Bad enough that their friendship had all been in Vincent's head to begin with, that his offer of being partners had been cruelly eviscerated, but imagining the reaction had Alastor known what Vincent was unconsciously offering (let alone the fact that if Alastor asked, he STILL would fall on his knees and beg for one last chance to bite his hand, full well knowing now what exactly was on the line) was enough to make him drop whatever he was doing (sometimes about to bite the hand of whoever was currently in his lap being Not Alastor ™️) and flee to bury himself in ANYTHING else that could possibly grab his attention.
Whatever else happened in the future, at least Vox knew that he wouldn't ever allow himself to beg again for what had never been on offer. Even if the empty abyss where his heart had once been ached endlessly and mourned for what never was.
~~~~~~~~~~
Alastor had had quite enough of dealing with everyone at the hotel today; the usual chaos had been turned up tenfold, and he was currently deliberately ignoring whatever was happening elsewhere, hours after the original event and pouring himself a drink and gulping in down. After another glass or two, he relaxed and allowed his gaze to wander about the room. His bayou was stretching out invitingly, and he was tempted to go wander around in there for a few hours until whatever now had Charlie in fits had settled down, but the fireplace and a book he hadn't had time to finish was also calling his name. When his gaze landed on the old pill microphone that Vi- Vox had given him decades ago, his mind was drawn back to the times they'd spent in each other's company.
Nostalgia washed over him, and he remembered promising to pay a visit to the aquarium with Vox when they'd been pals, but they'd fallen apart before he could make good on his word. There'd been a flyer delivered in the mail that morning for a newly opened exhibit at the city's aquarium, which everyone had been excited about before something had blown up and everyone had forgotten as they panicked over the latest disaster.
Almost before he thought it through, he slipped into his shadows and appeared in the city's aquarium. It was after closing hours, and the place was deserted, except for a janitor a few rooms away. Wandering through the rooms, Alastor took the time to examine things, reading the details and ignoring the running commentary of his shadow who was whispering inane things like "Vincent would like this," and "What would Vincent have to say about this?" and "Oh! That sign is incorrect, Vincent told you about this decades ago! You should have it fixed!"
It wasn’t until he stood in the shark tunnel, that something caught his eye; a pair of sharks were in view, one of them biting the fin of the other as they rested near the glass. Something about the scene felt familiar, until a throat cleared behind him and said "The aquarium closed hours ago, time to go pal. I just got done convincing some other freak to get going."
Ignoring the exasperated tone of a man who wanted nothing more than to finish his job and go home, Alastor kept his eyes on the sharks and asked "Aren't you worried about the one eating the other?"
"Nah, they'll be fine. What he's doing is courting her, see? They bite each other as a way to say "I like you.""
Alastor ignored whatever else the janitor was saying, frozen in place as memories recontextualized themselves and scenes of Vincent nuzzling into his hand before gently biting it as they wound down for the night after hours of carrying on flashed before his eyes. Knowing the man was obsessed with sharks and even had some shark traits himself, it all was beginning to paint a picture that he'd never imagined, always considered himself above. But what horrified him the most was the sudden and painfully intense pang of want and unfamiliar regret that rushed through him as he brought his hands up to his hair. A shadowy tendril speared through the janitor before he could be a further witness, and Alastor immediately disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind the obliviously courting sharks under the soft glow of the lights that faded when the motion sensors no longer detected movement outside the aquariums.