Silence throughout the past few weeks.
Over the last handful of years, it was getting quieter and quieter. It was hard to place what it felt like, this growing space between two souls. It hadnβt begun with Vox moving out, but finding an exact catalyst was nearly impossible. The usual bustling of the house had gone first, and that was enough to cause an ache. But that was easy to fill.
Especially when there was still regular conversation.
Except even that had disappeared. Now the only noise around was that which Alastor created himself. And despite his greatest efforts, it was startling. Even the simple sounds of a glass scraping the counter was loud and clear. Hearing the rustling of pipes as the sink ran, the pouring of water into the cup, the movement of his own throat as he drank⦠was it ever something he would be used to again?
Vox was set to arrive any minute now, and the craving for the noise was at its worst for it. Expecting that he would be early for their scheduled time didnβt help much, he would have preferred to know the exact second. But it was worse now, in this moment.
He was thirteen minutes and twelve seconds late.
The knock on the door made Alastor scrunch his nose. Relief flooding his senses, only to be replaced by an irritation and concern when he realized that it was still too damned quiet. The frequency achingly low, in the background, compared to the sound of the world around him.
He opened the door, and the channel came alive. Vox talking a mile a minute over the waves, apologizing profusely and letting his thoughts run so far that Alastor very nearly had a headache from the sudden change. A welcome change, but an overwhelming one.
βI just couldnβt get away.β The exasperation in Voxβs mind was as obvious as Alastorβs discomfort. βYou wouldnβt believe the week that Iβve had with this stupid production. Weβre over budget, out of time andβsorry, did you want to go out, we can get goingβbut God, this is getting ridiculous!β
Alastor cradled his head for a split second while Vox had rushed inside past him. He hadnβt even gotten the chance to look at Vox, or greet him properly. There was a question in there somewhere, in all the mess, and Alastor tried to sort it out piece by piece.
When he wanted the noise back, this wasnβt what he meant.
βWhy donβt we just stay here tonight?β
Vox hardly even let him finish before he was on again, complaining loudly as he all but collapsed on the couch. βItβs been like this for months, Alastor. I shouldnβt be surprised, the main actress and the writer have been at each otherβs throats since the pilot. Iβm so sick of these fucking sitcoms, but they do numbers. You should hear the stupid ass story they wrote, so unrealistic!β
Alastor couldnβt get a single word in at this point. Not to offer Vox anything, not to concur or refute, he just had to sit beside him. Watch him flail around wildly while he progressively seemed to get more angry and exhausted.
It was only then that Alastor noticed what should have been the most obvious change. Vox did look different, having switched monitors. It lookedβ¦ delicate. As if the slightest thing could snap it. It was oddly beautiful, in a fragile way. The colors were bright and vibrant, but there was sparking underneath the screen. Whether that was intentional or not didnβt matter, it still was concerning. Alastor moved to touch it, to see it better, feel it on his hands.
Vox pulled away.
He didnβt notice, Alastor told himself. Still in the throes of a one-sided conversation about something he seemed to have lost faith in before it even began.
The stitches were beginning to pull.
βSo we got a hold of this pilot, right? With the promise of a six episode season, but this asshole writes a cliffhanger. Itβs not even a good one! She just tells some guy whoβs not her husband that she loves him! And the producer in chargeβoutside of me, of courseβtells him itβs unacceptable. Good, great. But he wonβt hear it unless it comes from me.β
It was hard to keep track of the situation, with Vox talking over himself, thinking in so many directions at once. Not that Alastor would be able to respond, either way.
βAnd Iβm down the hall, fighting with the advertisers. Theyβre demanding a full three second shot for these diet pillsβwhich Iβm 90% sure are just rat droppings coated in pink paintβbut it ruins the whole sequence! Itβs an ugly shot to begin with, having to focus on the way she holds her hands, but I can deal with that. We adjusted the set and everything just to make it look halfway decent, but for three seconds? Theyβre in the middle of an argument! This isnβt a commercial, and breaking down the composition is bad enough, but I refuse to break the flow of theβyou donβt care about this, sorry, butββ
βIββ
ββheβs supposed to be the best in the business. Even if heβs a pain in the ass, his stuff does numbers. I had to offer him so much money just to have him demanding to hear it from me.β
Hadβ¦ had Vox just cut himself off from discussing something he genuinely cared about just to rant further about something so trivial? He had stopped running between topics, thinking over himself for the quickest of seconds. Smoothly talking about the cinematography only to put words in Alastorβs mouth.
And he was wrong. Alastor didnβt fully grasp the importance of the shot, or even the sequence, but hearing it in Voxβs words made him listen. He knew the words by now, knew some of the rules that mattered during production, all because of Vox. He would have gladly heard him talk about that for eternity, but Vox spoke over him, assigned meaning to nonexistent words.
The stitches were beginning to ache.
βVox, Iββ
ββthereβs just no excuse for his entitledββ
βVox!β
Alastor snapped, finally. His expression so strained that he might as well have been fuming. But he wasnβt angry, not really. Frustrated, certainly. Upset, most definitely. Afraid? Maybe.
βWhat is all of this?β His thoughts were more even now, he had managed to calm himself before he spoke along the waves. Gesturing at Vox like it explained more than words could give him at the moment.
βOh, right. You havenβt seen me in a while, have you?β Vox was nervously laughing, a hesitation along the frequency that must have been from Alastorβs outburst. βItβs a newer model, something that hasnβt even hit the market yet and Iββ
βThat isnβt what I meant.β Well, not all of it, at least. Alastor refused to be talked over now. This was his frequency too. And he had more control over it than Vox did. He wouldnβt go unheard now.
βWhatβ¦ what do you mean?β
Alastor and Vox sat there for a solid twenty-six seconds. Alastor searching for the right words as his irritation itself spilled into the frequency between them. Voxβs anxiety came through to match it. The silence had returned once again, save for little emotions peeking through.
It was horrifying.
To be so close, and yet hear nothing.
Even the sound of the house settling was now drowning out anything else. Distracting Alastor from the pieces he wanted to put together. His microphone was rustling through static, growing louder to fill the space. How long had his left hand been trembling?
βI mean all of it.β
βAlastor, I donβt knowββ
βAll of this. Your insistence on becomingββ
A ringing in the air. Alastorβs head dropped into his hands. The shrill tone of his own home phone ripping through the static and quieting him completely. Vox, for a split second, seemed to reach out in some way or another, but the noise just continued. The call would drop and pick up again in a way it never did. Well, it clearly wasnβt a call for him.
It was rare that someone tried for Vox on this phone these days, but it still happened. And Alastor would let it go every time. It was usually obvious when the call was meant for him. Alastor waved Vox to pick it up, if for no other reason than to make the noise stop.
A move he would regret in less than a minute.
Vox greeted the call with some level of irritation, yet his voice hid his actual demeanor. Speaking out loud had such a different quality to it for both of them. Voxβs careful persona betrayed only by the slight cracks along private radio waves.Β
Only to be snapped completely the more the call progressed.
If Alastor wasnβt putting so much effort into cutting out the outside world, maybe he would have heard the contents. Maybe he would have understood why Voxβs emotions were suddenly everywhere.
βNo, thatβs notβIβm telling you itβs impossible! Why wouldnβt theβslow down. No, Iβm coming now. I said Iβm coming now!β
The phone hit the receiver with a snap, and Alastor winced.
βYou canβt go now.β
βI have to.β While Alastor had switched back over to the frequency, Vox had not. βIββ
βYou canβt.β
His own voice was the only thing he could hear along the channel, and it was making everything so much worse. Being excluded in a way that had never happened before⦠Vox could think, could speak, but had decided Alastor was shut out entirely.
The stitches were beginning to tear.
He was on his feet as Vox started to walk. And all Vox was doing was repeating the same words out loud.
βI have to go.β
Alastor grabbed Vox hard by the arm, trying to force him to turn around. Which he did. Tired, anxious eyes met Alastorβs wild and desperate ones.
βYou canβt. Whatever it is can waitββ
βIt canβt wait!β This time the frequency was used, a blunt instrument to knock Alastor back. βIβm sorry.β But that was the last time he heard anything from Vox that night.
Even as the scene continued, as he withdrew his hand from Vox, took a step back.
βVox, please.β
Even as he begged. Vox was silent. Watching him move suddenly, disappearing into his network in the street. Alastor slammed the door behind him, stewing in the silence after the sound of the air had calmed.
Static bubbled up around him, drowning him in something less overwhelming. But it didnβt slow down his breathing.
When did this happen? When did Vox start speaking for him, over him, in spite of him? What was the exact moment Alastor stopped being a factor in his life? Searching, scanning through times in the last seven years, last twenty, last seventy. There had to be a sign. Somewhere, there had to be a sign. There had to be. This didnβt just happen. When did Vox stop hearing him? Respecting him? Caring about him?
It was agonizing to think about.
Scrubbing through any recording, any memory that would make this make sense. Looking for a pattern that refused to show. Thinking through every smile, every word, every touch. Vox was a performer. He had been in life, in death, everything. Was this a performance that went unnoticed? Was Vox that good of an actor that he could be flipped like a switch and turn it off?
Was any of it real?
That train of thought broke through the stitches along the edges of his smile. And Alastor started laughing. The backside of the door immediately took damage, nails raking into the wood before they flew up to his own face.
The magic that went into the stitching was rudimentary. Sealing pieces that held wear of almost a century. In the beginning it was about maintaining an image, something simple and observable. Slowly it became apparent that the faΓ§ade could never be dropped, not anywhere, for any reason. Untilβ¦
No.
Not anywhere.
Not to anyone.
Even here, in the comfort of his own space, he felt eyes on him. Well, perhaps it wasnβt really his space. It was infected. Vox had become a parasite on his home, in his brain, in his blackened heart. Wormed his way through the ranks, using Alastor as a prop until he was content to take the reins for himself.
Oh, Alastor had been right.
Letting someone in had been poisonous, ruinous. And now the contamination was everywhere. And he couldnβt rid himself of it internally, so he took it out on the space around him.
There would be no quiet now, with the crashing and breaking and smashing and destruction. The damned phone took it the worst, being ripped apart almost methodically, piece by piece. Seeing each wire fray under his fingers gave him comfort where nothing else would. The electricity crackling and causing his skin to blacken. The pain was almost good. It gave him something else to focus on.
Something other than the ripping in his face.
When the world had settled back into silence, it was all he could feel. And Alastor tried to ignore it. He tried. He tried. But a finger snaked into the frazzled loops. And when he pulled backβ¦
He felt his skin tearing at the seams.
And he couldnβt stop now. No. Take them all out, leave his face mangled and bloody. Only then could he start fresh. New stitches, sturdier ones. A heavier mask, one that wouldnβt be so easy to break through. A stronger front, then he would never have the need for defense again.
Cutting out Vox would be hard.
Like pulling a tree up from its roots. It would damage the ground underneath. It would take so long for the soil to settle. So long.
β¦ He could cut it.
The frequency, he could cut it.
He held the channel with the greatest hold heβd ever had on anything. Ready to snap it, ready to break the connection that Vox was so happy to ignore. Butβ¦
βI donβt know what Iβd do without you, Alastor.β
βYouβll never have to, I swear. No matter what, I will be right here.β
He just couldnβt. Vox could abandon him, but Alastor couldnβt. Even if Vox left him with nothing, Alastor would be there. He would keep his promise. Maybe that would wake Vox up someday. Seeing him refuse to give up on their connection.
It would be different. It would be distant.
It would be quiet.
But it would be there.
In the wake of the destruction, both to the room and Alastor, there was just one thing left. The fear that went unfinished, unsaid, all because of the now shattered phone in background.
Your insistence on becoming someone unrecognizable.
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