Chapter Text
The last thing that he remembered was their laughter.
Loud. Obnoxious. Mocking. Each sharp breath and subsequent laugh felt like a knife twisting into his gut. Not that he had a gut anymore— but that was far beyond the point.
Before that, he saw the light taper to darkness. He watched the world that he knew fade into nothingness, collapsing into a void and appointing Vox as its god.
They told Vox that it was for the better: he couldn't destroy himself this way and his obsession with Alastor needed to be deadheaded before it grew even more out of control.
They pressed his buttons and held them until Vox’s screen flickered and faded entirely. His entire body, voice, and presence gone with merely a click.
Well, that's what they thought.
Reality never tended to be that simple.
Shutting him down would remove any chance at independence or mobility, destroy his organs and limbs—but they didn't account for his… immaterial qualities.
His soul remained reluctantly intact.
Now unconstrained, his thoughts were now as obsessive and ravenous as ever.
How could they not be, when all he was destined to do was think? When his consciousness was the only part that wasn't scrapped and sent for the junkyard?
He couldn't see. He barely even knew where he was. He couldn't feel or smell or touch—do anything that once tethered himself to the concept of humanity.
But that hardly mattered to him.
His first priority was figuring out how to stop the phantom heartache twisting in his chest. It stabbed and gnawed at his insides, tearing apart the hollow cavity in his chest until there was nothing left. Every lingering memory hurt yet somehow the pain was worse when he didn’t think at all.
He just wanted it to stop. Drifting in the void would be somewhat bearable without the pseudesthesia.
Once he got that under control, then, maybe he would try to figure out where he was and how to regain his mobility.
Fixing that feeling was much easier said than done.
The ache had a source, obviously. Pain, phantom or otherwise, didn't just appear out of thin air. Something or someone had to have inflamed it.
If Vox knew anything, it was exactly where that pain came from.
It had been the same person for his entire afterlife.
Every day. Every thought. Every dream. Every time he did something worthwhile and instinctively glanced around for recognition-
It was always him.
Always.
Always fucking Alastor.
And Vox despised it.
He hated how his entire existence seemed to revolve around him—how he still chased his respect, his attention, his praise like some pathetic, broken thing.
How, despite Alastor's rejection that stung more like abandonment, he still wanted him. He hated how often he thought about him.
It was humiliating, really, how often Alastor lived in his head. How a single smile, dismissive glare, or arched eyebrow could make his day or break him down. Every triumph felt hollow unless Alastor saw it and every failure felt catastrophic because he might.
But the worst part of it all— the part that ensured the ache truly never went away?
Knowing that Alastor probably hadn’t thought of him once.
All this time, all these years and Alastor still didn’t see him as anything more than an annoyance. Vox had thought about him almost non-stop, but he probably hadn’t even crossed Alastor’s mind. And when he did? Vox was sure that he was thinking about how much of a failure he was. Pathetic and weak.
The only thing that brought Vox a sliver of comfort was rewatching his old memories. Times where he and Alastor had gotten along, almost as friends.
Drinks at the bar. Casual trips to parks and markets. Nights spent watching old movies and listening to mind-numbing broadcasts that were somehow tolerable in Alastor's presence.
Those memories were grainy, flickering things, but they were all he had. They were the closest he’s ever been to being seen. Tolerated. Or, maybe, sometimes even wanted.
Sometimes, if he was tired enough, he would replay the memories and eventually delude himself enough to believe that Alastor had actually liked him.
It was almost enough to keep him sane.
Clearly, it didn’t work.
Because when the fantasy faded—he was back to where he started.
Lonely. Obsessed. Self-deprecating to a degree bordering on dangerous.
The feeling that came from isolation, from looping thoughts that carved a hole in his chest the more he remembered. The kind that developed after being left in the dark for years without anyone actually seeing you.
Sure, people noticed him—they watched as he attempted to become a god, saw him as he projected himself onto every screen in hell. But not once had anyone recognized him for him.
He told himself that it was fine.
He told himself it was safer, being left in the dark. That being seen was far too vulnerable and soft for an overlord.
But Vox, as pathetic as he was, kept wanting it anyways.
Kept wanting Alastor.
He let the thought rot his mind. Gnaw at whatever semblance of stability he had left. It chewed through his pride, his logic, his carefully curated image of control until all that remained was pure want. Raw, humiliating, want. And whenever he tried to push it away, it came back stronger, festering deeper until it felt like it was woven into his core, impossible to rid.
His body hurt.
It felt… warm, almost.
Wait.
Why was he heating up?
The heat spread slowly, at first, like a faint electrical hum shooting through dead circuits. It was a familiar hum, a pulse that he hadn’t felt—well, since he was functional with a maneuverable body.
It intensified, spreading throughout his wires and ports just like how it did when he was operative. As if spread, it pricked at the parts of him where his joints used to be. He wasn’t sure if that was actuality or just another of his delusions.
His awareness sharpened. The darkness of the void faded, replaced by a gradual increase in light.
What was black turned grey, grey brightened to white.
And after white?
He blinked, once. His eyelids stuck together and his screen was slow to respond, but when he opened his eyes, he saw red. A hazy smear of it, but red nevertheless.
He blinked again.
And the red morphed into a somewhat recognizable, familiar shape.
He squeezed his eyes shut, a crackle of static shooting through his head at the sudden movement. What he thought he saw definitely couldn't be what he actually saw. It was an illusion. A fantasy came to life in some sick, twisted way.
Because there was no way in hell Alastor was crouching in front of him.
He sucked in a breath—reflexive, instinctual, and pointless due to his lack of lungs. The fans on the side of his head stuttered to life, whining into overdrive to compensate for the deficiency. It took a long, painful moment until they were fully functional.
The breath that escaped him was shaky, hot, and trembling, but it was still a breath.
He drew in another. Held it. Exhaled.
Then again.
And again.
After the cycle was repeated several times—enough for his system to fully regulate and he was sure that his eyes wouldn't deceive him—did he finally decide to open them.
Yet, astonishingly, the figure remained.
Tall. Red. Smile not as sharp as Vox remembered it being.
For a single, fleeting moment, he was grateful. Relieved, even. Thankful that he was pulled from the void and given a second chance at something resembling life. Happy that it was Alastor instead of some irrelevant nobody.
But that feeling curdled the instant he focused on Alastor's face.
His eyebrows were drawn taut, lifted high on his face in a way that made his expression pinch. His smile was slanted downwards, pained and forced, but somehow it still resembled a smile. Vox felt Alastor’s claws gripping the edge of his screen, almost hard enough to crack. His usually sharp red eyes that he had spent so long fantasizing about seemed… glassy. Reflective in a way that Vox could just make out his pathetic reflection in them.
His entire face screamed disgust. His posture dripped with disdain.
Alastor stood with his arms crossed, looking down at Vox like he was nothing more than a pest. Like he was some dirty, unworthy thing that should be groveling at Alastor's feet for a chance at pity.
Vox felt any lingering hope immediately extinguish.
Of course.
Why would Vox expect anything besides contempt from Alastor. Alastor, the man who had been tormenting and disparaging him for almost the entirety of his afterlife.
Vox had to bite back a laugh.
Why would he ever think that Alastor would have helped him?
God, he really was pathetic.
“T-T-” He started, voice scratchy and rough. “Turn me off if you're just here to mock me.”
He swallowed, trying to stifle the wobble in his tone. “I’m already at my lowest… you know I can’t take any more of your insults.”
Alastor didn’t speak, he just stared at Vox for far too long and too intently. Like a predator assessing the weakness of their prey before deciding what to do with it.
“F-fuck. Why do you always do this to me?” Vox rasped, static flickering across his face. “Every time you look at me- stare at me like that, I can feel you cataloging every failure, you know. Every flaw. Every reason why a broken thing like me could never compare to someone like you.”
Vox sniffed before continuing. “What are you here for- just to look at me? To rub in my face how I’ve failed and how you haven't? Fine. I’ll finally admit it. You win!”
His voice cracked at the last word, vents shuddering with the effort.
He waited.
Nothing.
“Say something!” Vox choked out, vents hissing at his sudden outburst.
Still, Alastor remained still. No words. No refutation. The only indication that he was listening was the slightest twitch of his eye.
Vox’s eyes felt hot. Heavy.
“Of course,” He whispered, voice trembling. “I’m not even worth a response anymore, am I?”
Vox sighed, the sound emphasized by a stuttering breath of his fans. “I used to be something. I was something. An icon that even someone like you couldn't ignore.” Vox continued softly, almost to himself. “Big. Important. Feared. Now I’m just this… screen. This stupid pathetic monitor clinging to the one person who couldn't care less about me.”
He faintly registered the electric static of a tear forming against his eye. He ignored it.
“Seriously, Al. Just leave. Why are you even-”
Vox’s breath hitched mid sentence.
He must have used the key.
The key.
Alastor had his key.
He went into his room. Snooped through his dressers and drawers.
He must have found that letter. There was no other explanation.
He felt his screen ignite, a hot, sudden awareness, and he could only imagine how stupid he looked.
“Oh great. You're here to ridicule me about that letter,” He spat, voice laced with embarrassment. "I wrote that years ago, I-I don't even care anymore.”
They both knew that was a lie.
He swallowed hard, trying to regulate his tone though he knew his trembling voice betrayed him, “J-Just go ahead and say it. I’m stupid. Weak. Pathetic for even looking in your direction. Just say it and leave me alone.”
Alastor still didn’t answer.
Not a word. Not a twitch.
He didn’t even give Vox the satisfaction of looking away; his deep red eyes fixated on Vox’s screen.
When Vox spoke, it was nearly a whisper, “Go on, you’ve never had a problem saying it before.”
Again, silence.
His screen flickered violently, static lacing the edges of it as anger surged through his system at Alastor's impassivity.
“I mean, fuck, Alastor- do you have any idea what its like? Spending your whole entire life, doing everything—everything— you do for the recognition of one person and they don't even acknowledge you unless it's to grind you under their heel?”
His voice rose, choked and desperate, “Do you know how humiliating it is? How deluded I have to be to even just imagine getting your attention?
His fans kicked on in a startled rush, filling the space between them with a warm, enthusiastic hum that made the silence feel even louder.
Vox forced himself to meet Alastor's unwavering gaze. “And still, still- after all of this I still want you.” His voice cracked, static lacing each syllable, distorting the words, “Fuck. Just say something. Anything. Please, Alastor, just say something.”
Vox stared at Alastor, wide-eyed and flushed.
Finally, Alastor reacted.
It was slow, at first— his smile widened, eyes narrowed just a fraction.
And then he laughed.
Not merely a chuckle but a full-blown holler. A laugh so loud, so jarring, that if Vox had a body he would have flinched, his screen compensated by flickered.
It reminded him of that night.
When Vox had confessed and Alastor had laughed at him in the exact same way.
Tears pricked at the corner of his eyes, loosening with each blink. His face was impossibly warm now, fans working on overdrive, desperately trying to cool a host that wouldn't stop overheating.
He wanted to say something, spit out some witty remark about how all of that was just a lie and how he really didn't mean any of it and how it was just a joke. He wanted to laugh along with Alastor, make fun of his own pitifulness, claim that it was all merely a ruse.
But he couldn't.
Because it was so obviously the truth.
A pain shot through his entire phantom body and he wished he had hands so he could power himself down.
End this before Alastor’s mocking really did kill him.
“Oh, fuck!” Alastor laughed, wiping tears from his eyes as though Vox’s suffering was the funniest thing to ever exist. “I knew you were pathetic, but I didn’t realize you were so dense!”
Vox’s screen flickered, glitching out for a moment.
He wanted to be angry, he wanted to scream and cry and demand an explanation for why this was so fucking funny, but he couldnt seem to feel anything other than emptiness. That same hollow feeling that he had felt all those years ago when Alastor rejected him returned in full force. It somehow stung more the second time.
Of course Alastor would rub salt into a wound that had been healing for decades. Of course Alastor would laugh after he confessed because why wouldn't he? Vox really was dense—why hadn’t he learned since last time?
“Yeah, right. Static crackled around him like a broken sob. “I’m the joke of the century, Go ahead, get it all out.”
Alastor’s laugh quickly faded.
Vox could only stare as his expression shifted from amusement to something unreadable. He would say that he knew Alastor well enough to be able to read his emotions, understand what the tilt of his head and flick of his ears meant, but this? Vox was at a loss.
Alastor's ears flattened tight against his head, not with anger—he knew what anger looked like on Alastor—but with something close to alarm. His eyes shot open, flickering with an emotion Vox had never seen directed at him. Disbelief? Shock? Hurt?
Whatever it was, it made the ache in his body stutter, hiccuping in his chest as if it didn't know whether to hurt more or shut down entirely.
“Vox,” Alastor said, voice almost in a whisper, “Do you understand why I’m here?”
“I-Well, yeah!” He sputtered, trying to recover what little dignity he had left, “I just said. You’re here to mock me, rub it in my face, tell me how weak I am—same as always.”
Alastor didn’t respond in the way he expected.
No smile.
No arched brow.
No derisive laughter.
Instead, his expression tightened just enough that it made Vox pause.
“Is that truly what you believe?” Alastor asked quietly.
Vox blinked, thrown off by the tone and the unnerving softness. “Well, yeah. W-What else am I supposed to think?” He blinked, trying to reign in the tears that burned his eyelids, “You laughed.” He snapped, but his voice wavered. “You always laugh. At me.”
Alastor exhaled slowly. Not annoyed. Not mocking.
It was almost closer to… guilt? Or was it pity?
“Im sorry,” Alastor started, “That laugh wasn’t aimed at your pain.”
Vox scoffed, static crackling in his voice, “Then what the hell was it aimed at?”
Alastor leaned in closer, gripping onto Vox’s screen like it was the only thing tethering him to reality, “It truly was directed towards your stupidity.”
His smile widened, as if letting Vox in on some secret. “Why do you think I am here?”
“Again-” Vox started, but Alastor cut him off with a finger to his lips. Vox’s screen flickered in response.
“No. I am here because I read the letter. I read it all, Vox.”
“Well obviously,” Vox sneered. “You wouldn't have known what the key unlocked otherwise.”
Alastor's finger lingered a moment longer on Vox’s screen, a quiet warning, before he lowered his hand.
“The key told me where I could go.” Alastor started, sitting down and pulling Vox into his lap. “But the letter told me why.”
“Congratulations, you decoded basic context,” Vox deadpanned. “Still, if you're here to ridicule me about my feelings—go for it. Not like you can think any less of me.”
“Vox,” Alastor scolded, and Vox knew his projection on his screen flinched. “I read the letter. I very well could have taken over Voxtech or thrown away the key like you prompted.”
Vox blinked.
“I…” Alastor whispered, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”
Vox blinked again. Static filled the air.
“I had no idea you felt that way about me.”
Vox scoffed, “Yeah, I’m calling bullshit. What did you think I was trying to form a partnership for— for the fun of it? “
Alastor didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.
If anything, Alastor's inaction only seemed to fuel the bitterness electrifying his senses.
“For the thrill of competition?” Vox continued, voice rising. “Publicity? Power? Bordem?” His screen flickered at each word, overheating with anger and humiliation.
“Come on, Alastor, you can't be that dense.”
Alastor stared at Vox like a deer in headlights, frozen, wide-eyed.
Vox had to choke back a laugh, “W-What? Is that it? Don’t tell me you thought I was trying to use you?”
Alastor, again, only stared. The silence said more than any confession.
Vox snarled, “Did you really think I was that… low—trying to befriend you just for your power? Is that why you always thought I was weak? Because you never truly saw me as anything more than a leech trying to suck your power?”
“I-”
“And you’re calling me dense?” Vox spat, cutting him off before the single syllable could become a coherent word. “How can you even say that? How can you act like I was the issue, but this entire time it's been your massive ego and self-preservation that fucked everything up?”
His voice shook. Not with fear, but with years of built up rage and humiliation. “I don’t believe you—I’ve practically spelled it out! Every meeting, every fight, every outing years ago when we were f-friends. Did you think that was just—me, groveling at your feet? You just—”
“Fucking hell, do you ever shut up?” Alastor spoke, running a hand through his hair. “How can you call me dense, when you have yet to form a coherent thought this entire time you’ve been running your mouth?”
Vox froze, slamming his lips shut with a force he didn’t even think was possible. For a second, everything in him went still—his veins, his static, his projection on his screen.
And then his words finally registered.
He insulted him. Again. Of course.
“Another-”
“Shut up. That wasn't meant as an insult,” Alastor snapped, lowering his voice, “I’m telling you the truth. You were right.” He muttered, almost inaudibly, “for once.”
Alastor sighed as Vox stared up at him, stunned into silence. “I was under the impression that you wanted to… use me. Take my power. Use my publicity for your benefit.”
Alastor pinched the bridge of his nose as if his words were giving him a migraine, “I haven’t always hated you—admittedly, I never hated you. I would say it was more of a… mutual disdain.”
Alastor paused and averted his gaze, “When we were younger, I found myself quite enjoying your company. But then you went and ruined it by admitting your weakness. At least, that's what I thought. I believed that this entire time, you were trying to gain my favor to exploit my power.”
Vox felt that sharp pain run through his body again. He wasn't sure if it was because of the cruelty of Alastor's phrasing or from the humiliation of the memory resurfacing— the moment that his entire world shattered.
Alastor's hand fell away from his face and gripped Vox’s screen.
“I never thought you cared,” he said quietly. “And when I found myself… beginning to like you, I had to push you away. I told myself that if you didn’t care about me, I wouldn't be so weak as to care about you."
Alastor's thumb tapped once against the glass—absent-minded, almost nervous.
“I don't know exactly how I feel about you now.” Alastor continued, voice lower and more honest than Vox had ever heard it. “But I do… tolerate you more than other people.”
Vox stared at him before sputtering out, “T-tolerate. Wow—such an honor.”
Alastor's ears twitched, but he didn't pull away. “Just…” He sighed, “I am being sincere. You know I don't tolerate many people—anyone, actually, besides you.”
Vox wasn't sure whether his fans turned on because he was hot or because whatever the hell this conversation was turning into.
“S-So what? What is this—a confession? Compliment…?”
“I’m trying to say what you want me to admit without lying.” Alastor murmured. “I always knew that you were different. I just never understood why. I still don't. But you mean something to me, Vox. You always have.”
Vox’s screen glitched, static crawling up the edges.
“I don't know what this feeling is. I don't want to… lead you on, as they say. But I do know that I have misunderstood you for far too long. And I would like to change that.”
“Oh,” Vox started, though the sound was more just a crackle than an actual word.
Alastor's eyebrows drew together, “Oh?”
Vox hated how soft his voice came out, “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“That's a first,” Alastor scoffed, though there was no real bite to it.
Vox’s static flared, “Shut up!” His voice waved, glitching in some parts, “Do you even know what that does to me, after I’ve spent all this time obsessing over you?”
Alastor tightened his grip on Vox’s screen, “I believe I do.”
Vox’s projection looked away, heat spiking along the pixels. “I-Wh-Well why do you keep talking then?” Vox stuttered.
“Because,” Alastor leaned in just enough for the gesture to feel intentional. “After you poured your miserable feelings into that letter, it’s only fair that I attempt the same.”
“So what, exactly, are you trying to get out of this. I’m tired of you leading me on, just spit it out!”
Alastor sighed, ears flicking backwards, “I’m not leading you on. You're just as dense as usual.”
“Just say it.”
A low, guttural noise almost resembling a growl escaped Alastor's throat as he spoke, “I want to attempt to fix what has happened between us.” He sighed, avoiding his gaze, “Now, seeing you in a different way… I feel like I have mistreated you.”
Vox scoffed as a flush illuminated his screen, “No kidding.”
“I’m attempting to do something about it now. Please, Vox. Let me try.”
“P-Please?” Vox laughed, “Wow, I never thought you would sink so low as to beg.”
Alastor's expression darkened immediately, shifting to stand up.“Yes, well. I’ll be going then.”
“W-Wait! I’m just joking!” Vox stuttered, eyes widening in panic. “I want to fix… whatever we have, too. I just don't really know how.”
Alastor's ears flattened against his head. “I’ll admit, you have more experience in this area than I do.” He started, a smile spreading on his face, “Though I suppose we should start with getting you a new body. Then we’ll see where things go.”
Vox mirrored his smile, the soft glow on his screen shifting into something warm, “Yeah… a body. That’d be nice.”
Silence settled between them—thick, but not uncomfortable. Vox’s screen flickered once, as if embarrassed by its own brightness.
“Deal?” Alastor asked, outstretching his hand only to retract it a moment later. “Oh—right. Apologies.”
Vox scoffed, “You can still offer.”
“And how would you accept?”
Vox hesitated, and then produced a small, waving hand on his screen. It was glitchy and imperfect, but still recognizably a hand. “Like this.”
Alastor smiled, and then reached forward, placing his hand on Vox’s projection.
“Deal,” Vox said quietly.
“Deal,” Alastor echoed.