FRAN💗(unraveled 🧶)

Vincent “So distracted by his obsession that he forgets his real goal” Whittman

Must’ve been the wind…

The chess game

Summary: Vincent and Alastor visit an aquarium, but it’s the 1950s, an especially precarious era.

Morning found Vincent turning onto the narrow street and stopping in front of the familiar shotgun house with the pale green trim. He lifted his hand and knocked once, firm but not demanding.

Inside, Alastor was halfway through adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves when the sound cut through the house. He crossed the narrow front room in socked feet and peered through the lace curtain.

Of course.

"Lord help me," he muttered, already moving to unlock the latch.

Alastor opened the door and stepped into the doorway, blocking the view inside with his body. Vincent was there, smiling the way he always did when he saw Alastor—soft, unguarded, like the rest of the world had been temporarily filed away.

“Morning,” Vincent greeted.

“You’re going to get me shot one of these days,” Alastor said flatly. “You know that, right?”

Vincent’s eyebrows knitted. “Well, aren't you a ray of sunshine."

“I’m serious,” Alastor muttered, glancing down the street. A man two houses down paused a fraction too long with his paper. “Folks talk.  You can’t just walk around here like this." Irritation pulled at Alastor the way it did when Vincent showed up, announced.

Vincent lowered his voice. “Don't worry so much, Al. I took the long way."

“That’s not the point.” Alastor exhaled through his nose. “You don’t belong in a colored neighborhood, Vincent. It doesn't sit well with either side."

Worse if it were the other way around. Worse if Alastor were the one standing on a white man's doorstep in daylight, waiting to be let in. Worse in ways neither of them had to imagine.

"You should've called ahead and waited at the corner, like you're supposed to." Alastor chided.

Vincent's smile faltered, guilt finally settling in. "I wanted to surprise you," he said. "I thought—

"I know, dear," Alastor said, voice softer now. "That doesn't make it smart."

“Alastor? Who’s at the door, baby?” a warm voice from deeper in the house called out.

Vincent straightened instinctively, polite as Sunday mornings.

Alastor closed his eyes. Just briefly. “It’s Vincent, Mama.” He stepped aside and opened the door wider. "You might as well come in now. You're already a spectacle."

Alastor’s mother appeared from the kitchen, apron tied neatly at her waist. Her face brightened the moment she saw Vincent. “Well, don’t just stand there like a post, child. Come in before the sun bakes you.”

Vincent stepped inside, careful, respectful. The house smelled like coffee and something starch, warm and lived-in.

"Thank you, ma'am," Vincent tipped his head in respect. "I'm sorry to drop in without warning."

"Oh, nonsense, sugar cane," she said, waving him off. “You look thin,” she told him, peering up at him with a practiced eye. “Are you eating proper meals, or are you surviving on coffee and bad habits?”

Vincent chuckled. “I eat. Mostly.” It wasn't a lie, but he purposely left out the part about his meals mainly consisting of greasy fast food and prepackaged frozen meals.

Alastor was especially picky about how he kept himself fed.

“Mmhmm.” She clicked her tongue, unconvinced. “You hungry? I've got biscuits."

Vincent glanced at Alastor, a question in his eyes that said, Is this okay? Alastor answered with a look that said Don't you dare refuse my mother's cooking.

"Biscuits would be wonderful," Vincent said.

The woman beamed. "Sit, sit," she encouraged before glancing at her son, placing a hand on her hip. "Alastor, why haven't you offered him a drink? I taught you better, child."

“Because I was busy lecturing him,” Alastor said, closing the door and sliding the bolt. “As usual.”

“Oh, you lecture everyone. You jus love hearin' your own voice," her voice trailed as she walked off into the kitchen

Alastor muttered something under his breath and followed Vincent into the small front room. They sat side by side on the sofa, knees barely touching.

"You're lucky she likes you," Alastor murmured as he finished with his cuffs.

"I try very hard to be likable," Vincent murmured back, lips twitching into a smile.

Ms. Moreau returned with a plate of biscuits and gravy for Vincent. He graciously accepted the plate and thanked her.

“What brings you by so early, hun?” she asked, her smile warm and maternal.

Vincent shifted, glancing at Alastor again—not nervous, exactly, but careful. “I was wondering if Alastor might want to go out today.”

Alastor arched a brow. “Out where?”

“The aquarium,” Vincent said, brightening a little despite himself. “They’ve got a new exhibit. Sharks!”

Alastor shot him a look. "You knocked on my door for fish?"

"I came here to ask if you wanted to go," Vincent corrected.

“You should go, baby," Ms. Moreau said, her attention on Alastor now. "Get some air, huh? You work too much."

"And I should use my day off for fish?" Alastor repeated.

His mother gave him a look. "Alastor Thomas Moreau, your friend came all the way to invite you. You're going," she said with finality.

Alastor blinked at the sound of his full name. "Yes, ma'am,” he begrudged. Oh, how his mother had the power to make a fully grown man feel sixteen again.

Vincent smiled at that, fondness creeping in. “I thought it might be a good day for it."

Finally, Alastor sighed. "What time does it open?"

Vincent's face lit up. "Nine. If we leave now, we can avoid traffic."

Alastor checked the clock. It was an hour to nine.

"B-but we can leave whenever you're ready," Vincent said immediately. "I've got the whole day."

"Yes, I don't doubt it. Only you would clear your entire schedule for fish, sha."

"Sharks," Vincent said, a light blush dusting his cheeks.

Alastor's mother watched them, eyes sharp despite the kindness in her face. But whatever she saw, she didn’t comment.

"Well, I gots to get back to washing those dishes,” Ms. Moreau said as she stood from her wooden rocking chair. “Alastor, bring a jacket. Those places are always cold.”

“Mama—”

“And Vincent,” she added, pointing a finger at him, “make sure he eats something. That boy gets cranky when he doesn’t.”

Vincent laughed, genuinely. “Yes, ma’am.”

Alastor narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, but there was no real heat in it. He excused himself and disappeared down the hall, leaving Vincent to eat the last of his home-cooked breakfast.

Ms. Moreau studied him for a moment, her expression kind.

"Vincent?"

Vincent met her gaze at once. There was worry around her aged eyes despite her smile.

"You take care of my baby," she said gently.

Vincent held her gaze. He understood her words at once— the roads Alastor should never walk alone, the wrong glances that could turn deadly, the laws written by men who could never see her son as a person, as her child.

"Yes, ma'am. I always do," he said. "I'll make sure he comes home.”

She patted his arm, satisfied, and returned to the kitchen.

While Vincent waited, he stood by the door, observing the photo frame he'd taken from the side table.

The image was soft with age. Alastor, no older than ten, stood stiff-backed in a dark coat. Beside him, his mother stood in a dress, one gloved hand clutching a Bible to her chest, the other wrapped around her son's shoulders. Behind them loomed a church, with white steps and open doors. Easter lilies clustered near the entrance. Alastor wasn't smiling, not quite, but there was something gentler in his eyes.

Footsteps sounded from down the hall. Vincent straightened immediately and set the frame back in its place.

Alastor appeared with a jacket draped over his arm. "Very well," he said. "Let's go look at some fish."

Vincnt’s smile bloomed.

Alastor reached out and opened the door for them. "I'll be home for dinner, Mama," he called out one last time behind his shoulder.

"Bye, baby. You boys have fun," she called back from the kitchen. "And Alastor, be nice."

Vincent and Alastor stepped out into the morning together. They were careful, practiced, and utterly inseparable in all the ways the world can’t see.

The drive downtown, Alastor was especially chatty. His cigarette burned, forgotten between his fingers as he ranted about the new guy.

Vincent loved hearing Alastor talk.

He loved the careful polish of his rehearsed transatlantic lilt. Alastor was constantly performing a version of himself meant for public consumption. His speech mirrored elegance and education in the way a radio show host should. Respectable. A voice meant to be taken seriously.

Vincent knew better. He's heard what hid beneath it. A soft, southern drawl pressed flat and tucked away, the warmth of home smothered under refinement

Every now and then, it slipped out. If Alastor was especially tired that day, or drunk, or irritated enough to forget himself.

The accent was armor—something Alastor put on so the world would listen to him instead of dismissing him. Something that kept him safe.

And still, Vincent ached for the moments when it cracked. For the moments when Alastor's voice dropped low and soft and southern. Those moments felt intimate, like Alastor loosened his tie and forgot. Vincent never called attention to it. He'd listen closely and treasure the truth in Alastor's voice as much as the beautiful lie he wore so well.

"Day after day, he comes in like he owns the place. It's so insufferable. He's so insufferable."

Vincent kept his eyes on the road, smiling. "He's new."

"That's no excuse. I was new once. I listened. I learned. You don't just walk into a station and start treating the microphone like it's a personal diary."

"You treated it like a pulpit," Vincent said mildly.

Alastor shot him a look. "And people listened, didn't they?"

They did. Vincent knew that. Even when Alastor was only the evening slot, even when his name wasn't printed on the posters out front, people tuned in for him. There was a gravity to Alastor's voice that made you lean closer, like the radio was confiding something meant just for you.

“And he keeps calling me Al,” Alastor continued, affronted.

"I call you Al all the time. You never complain," Vincent proposed.

"Well I hate it when he does."

Vincent grinned. “Maybe he’s trying to be friendly.”

“That’s not how that works, dearest. You earn friendliness. You earn respect."

Vincent laughed, soft and fond. At a stoplight, he reached over to brush Alastor's knee with his knuckles.

"Hands to yourself, Whittman."

Vincent chuckled, but he brought his hand back to the wheel when the light turned green.

By the time the aquarium came into view, all pale stone and banners snapping in the breeze, Alastor had moved to criticizing the programming schedule.

"It ruins the mood entirely," he said as Vincent pulled into a spot. "You can't go from a jazz hour into that."

Vincent cut the engine and turned toward Alastor.

“You’re passionate.”

"I'm correct."

Vincent had that familiar, love-sick grin. He reached over and took Alastor's hand, lifting it and pressing a soft kiss to the back of his knuckles.

"You're always correct, angel.”

"My, my," Alastor said, voice smooth and teasing. "Flaterry will get you nowhere."

Vincent watched him, eyes warm and unbothered by the deflection. "You didn't have to like it," he said, "I just wanted to."

Alastor raised a brow. "Like it? My dear, I merely tolerate your enthusiasm."

"You didn't pull away," Vincent argued with a smirk.

Alastor's grin sharpened, defensive and playful at once. "Like I said, I tolerate it."

Vincent stepped out and came around to Alastor's side. He held the door open with a flourish that made Alastor grimace.

"Oh, goodness. Now you're just being ridiculous," Alastor said.

"You love it."

The air outside was thick and sun-warmed. Families clustered near the entrance, men in hats, women in summer dresses, children tugging, their hands sticky with sweets. They walked up as a pair, close but not close enough. Alastor slowed as they approached the ticket booth. He peeled off to the side as though something in the window display had caught his interest.

Alastor knew better. A man like him standing too close invited questions. It invited looks of disapproval.

And Vincent didn't need that. Alastor purposely kept his distance.

Vincent noticed.

He stepped forward to the ticket window with easy confidence. “Two, please," he said, his voice clear and polite. He paid without comment, then took the stubs when they were slid across the counter. He turned, deliberately walked to where Alastor stood, and placed one into Alastor's hand.

The woman next in line turned her nose up and didn't bother to cover her scoff. A man's gaze flicked from Vincent to Alastor and then back again, trying to reconcile what he was seeing. A pair of teenagers stared too long, whispering urgently behind raised hands.

Disgust curdled on more than one face.

Alastor felt the weight of the paper like heat against his palm, felt the burning appraisal of the offended stares. He was not unfamiliar with the recalculation that happened in other people's eyes when they saw him standing beside a white man as an equal rather than an accessory.

Alastor's expression remained carefully composed as he calculated the dangers of Vincent's gesture.

Vincent met his gaze, unashamed. He stood there. Well-dressed. White. Confident in a way that suggested authority over the situation. There was something defiant in the way he stood, shoulders squared, as if daring the world to say something.

Alastor was aware that Vincent's gesture didn't come from kindness alone. It was a statement made without words: We arrived together. We are together. I will be seen with you.

The young man at the ticket booth cleared his throat. “Hey, he's gotta go around the side," he told Vincent, not even bothering to acknowledge Alaastor.

Alastor turned to them. “Yes, thank you,” he replied evenly.

Vincent followed Alastor, walking with him as far as the rules allowed. They stopped in front of a door with a smaller sign to the side that read: COLORED ENTRANCE

“You didn’t have to do that,” Alastor said quietly.

“Yes,” Vincent said just as quietly. “I did.”

Alastor’s mouth twitched. “Darling, you know they’ll still make me take a separate entrance.”

“I know.” Vincent met his eyes. “But now they’ll know I came with you, even if we have to pretend to be 'just friends' in public."

That was the rebellion. Small enough to pass as a minor inconvenience to anyone who didn’t matter. Loud enough to echo in Alastor’s chest.

"We're not even supposed to be 'just friends'," Alastor said bitterly, ridiculing the laws meant to keep them segregated.

"I'll meet you inside," Vincent said, voice low.

Alastor nodded once. "Don't get lost."

Vincent smiled, a flash of teeth and promise. "I'll find you."

Inside, the cool, dim interior welcomed them. They made a reunion near the map board, as if pulled there by some shared gravity. Vincent came around the corner too fast, nearly colliding with a schoolboy. Alastor was already there, leaning on a rail like he'd been waiting all along.

They locked eyes. The relief was immediate but carefully contained.

Alastor's grin pulled at his lips. “I told you not to get lost.”

“I didn’t,” Vincent assured, "Reconnaissance,” he said with a smirk. “I wanted to see where they keep the sharks. I know where they are, c'mon."

Alastor rolled his eyes, but his mouth curved upward. Vincent moved in strides, quick and eager, as if the aquarium might close on them if they didn't reach the sharks in the next five minutes, even though the aquarium would still be open for another nine hours.

They followed the blue-lit corridor until the area opened up in a glass tunnel—massive, dim, alive with slow, circling shadows.

Vincent stopped dead, as if he'd stepped into a cathedral.

“Oh,” he breathed. “Oh—Alastor, look at them." He leaned forward, hands braced on the rail, face inches from the glass. A shark slid past, pale belly flashing, eyes black and unreadable. Vincent laughed under his breath, half-disbelieving.

"Did you see the way it turned? That’s control. That’s—God, that’s beautiful.”

Alastor paid no mind to the swimming sharks. He watched Vincent, smiling warmly despite himself. There was something infectious about Vincent’s awe, the way he seemed both amazed and slightly scandalized by the sheer existence of the animals in front of him.

“You look like you’ve just discovered religion,” he said mockingly.

Vincent didn’t hear him. He was already talking about gills and migration, about how old some species were, about how sharks could sense electrical impulses in the water. His hands moved as he spoke, animated, reverent, eyes tracking every pass of a fin.

"Oh, wow! That one's massive." He said, racing to one side of the tank to scope the size of the animal.

"Hi there, gorgeous," he said to another one, pressing his hands on the glass, openly swooning over it.

One of the sharks swept past the glass. Vincent startled, then laughed outright. "Did you see that? It looked at me."

"I can assure you," Alastor said, "It did not."

Vincent finally glanced at him, grinning. "You're jealous."

"Of a fish?"

"Of my attention.”

Alastor peered through the glass, hands clasped behind his back, smile fixed and bright. “You’re enjoying this far too much,” he said. "They're just sharks. Hardly worth the melodrama."

Vincent looked at Alastor like he'd just suggested they jump off a high-rise building.

“Just sharks?”

Alastor glanced at him, brow arching.

“Yes. Fish. Large fish with sharp smiles. Very sharp smiles, I'll grant you, but—”

“No, no, don’t you dare,” Vincent cut in, brows knit in offense. “They’re not 'just sharks'. Those are apex predators. They’ve survived five mass extinctions, Alastor.”

Alastor blinked, his grin pulling at his lips.

“How… delightfully dramatic.”

"Sharks keep the whole ocean from collapsing. Without them, everything goes out of balance.”

"Oh?" Alastor tilted his head. "I hadn't realized you were such a devoted marine biologist."

"I'm serious," Vincent continued. "You take sharks out, and fish overpopulate, reefs die, oceans rot. Half the species people are afraid of barely even notice humans unless provoked."

Alastor hummed, amused. "I'll be sure to inform the next one that approaches me that I'm statistically insignificant."

Vincent glowered. "Don't be a jerk." He turned back to the tanks and pressed a hand against the glass. "People paint them as villains because it's easy, but they're not evil. They're doing what they're meant to do."

There was a brief pause. Alastor's grin softened, just a fraction. "I see. So, it's the reputation that bothers you."

"Yeah," Vincent said, "it does. They deserve respect,” he insisted. “You look at something like that and dismiss it.”

"Very well," Alastor conceded. "I shall amend my previous statement."

Vincent looked at him, brightly. "You will?"

"Indeed," Alastor said. "They are not just sharks," his grin returned, razor-bright. "They are misunderstood sharks."

Vincent deadpanned. "You're impossible."

"You love it." Alastor grinned cheerfully. "But I must admit, truthfully this time, that they do possess a certain elegance."

Vincent sighed, enamored with the shark swimming past him. "Don't they?"

"Mm, yes. I shall endeavor not to insult your...aquatic friends from now on."

Vincent’s gaze stayed glued to the tank, the slow sweep of gray bodies reflecting in his heterochromic eyes.

“I wish I were a shark,” he said, quieter now.

Alastor turned and lifted one brow with theatrical interest. "My, that's a new one."

Vincent's attention remained on the mesmerizing sweep of fins beyond the glass. "Think about it. They're imposing creatures, Al.”

"You're romanticizing a fish, Vincent. Should I be concerned?"

Vincent shrugged, "They embody power."

Alastor studied him more closely now. "And you find that formidable nature appealing? Sharks still bleed. They still starve. You just raved on about how certain species suffocate if they stop moving.”

Vincent frowned, "Yeah, but... when people see a shark, they get out of its way. It's respect, even if it's through misplaced fear."

Alastor huffed. "Oh, you and your obsession with these paramount rulers of the ocean.”

Vincent glanced at him and smiled. "Well, second only to killer whales, but yeah. They're a big deal."

Alastor's grin returned, sharp and assured. "Careful, Vincent. By that logic, you already have more in common with them than you think."

Vincent cocked a brow. “Yeah? I don’t see anyone parting when I walk into a room."

“On the contrary,” Alastor replied, eyes glinting. “You're America's darling television host! The world's your oyster, Vincent. If no one is parting like the Red Sea to let you through, it's only because they're hypnotized by your electric presence and bound in place. It's not quite the way you want it, but it's respect."

Vincent smiled at the thought.

The water cast wavering shadows across Alastor's face, distorting his grin into something almost thoughtful. "If it's any comfort," he spoke, voice low and warm. "The looks you possess are quite frighteningly dreadful."

Vincent's carefully built smile collapsed under the backhanded compliment, "No, Alastor. That's not comforting."

Alastor chuckled, "Ah, but it is shark-like."

Minutes slipped by unnoticed. Families came and went. Vincent didn’t. He followed every slow circuit of the sharks like it was a private conversation, leaning in, then pulling back, then leaning in again, as if proximity might teach him something new.

Alastor cleared his throat. Vincent didn’t budge.

“Vincent.”

“Mm?”

“We have an entire aquarium.”

“Yes, but—look, that one has scars. Do you think it’s from mating or—”

“My dearest," Alastor said, barely above a whisper. "If we don't pull away now, we'll be elderly men still standing here discussing dorsal fins."

"If it bothers you that much, then maybe you shouldn't have brought me here," Vincent muttered.

"The aquarium was your idea," Alastor said, appalled.

"Which makes you an accomplice."

Vincent grinned, sheepish and glowing. “Five more minutes?”

“No.”

“Two?”

“Start marching, Whittman.”

Vincent allowed himself to be guided away, casting one last, longing look over his shoulder at the circling shadows.

“I’m coming back,” he promised the sharks solemnly. "We can come back, right?"

An eye twitch accompanied Alstor's smirk. "Ask me that again in two hours."

They drifted through the exhibits in an easy, wandering line. They saw schools of silver fish that flashed like loose change and jellyfish pulsing like slow heartbeats. They read placards and then openly discussed their thoughts on the information.

Alastor guided them without seeming to, angling them toward places where the crowds thinned and the rules felt less sharp. He pointed things out now and then, observations delivered in that transatlantic cadence. Vincent listened, hooked on every comment Alastor made.

The sea lions announced themselves before they were seen with sharp barks and the splash of water. The exhibit opened wide and bright to a knot of couples of all ages gathered in front of it.

Alastor stopped just short of the exhibit so as not to inconvenience some of the folks already casting him looks. Vincent situated himself beside Alastor and shielded him from the piercing stares. Most heads turned away upon seeing that Alastor was with him.

Vincent’s hand twitched at his side. For one reckless heartbeat, he imagined reaching over, threading his fingers through Alastor’s. He wanted—God, he wanted—to take Alastor’s hand, to let the world see what they were to each other. To make it ordinary.

Alastor leaned forward slightly, attention fixed on the pool. “They’re showing off,” he said, voice low. “They always do when there’s a crowd.”

“They know they’re being watched,” Vincent murmured.

“Yes,” Alastor said with a grin. “And they love it.”

Vincent smiled at that, but his eyes drifted away from the performing sea lions.

He watched Alastor.

Vincent watched him the way a man watches something he knows he is not allowed to touch.

Alastor was beautiful in a way the world refused to acknowledge. His skin carried the truth of two lineages the era insisted should not meet, and Vincent thought the cruelty of that showed most clearly in how carefully Alastor had learned to exist. He moved with restraint, with practiced politeness and polished smiles; all eyes were constantly on him, but for the wrong reasons.

Alastor smiled when a sea lion barked sharply, amused despite himself. The mustache suited him—neat, deliberate, framing a mouth that curved easily into wit. His soft brown eyes settled into something thoughtful and observant behind his oval spectacles. Vincent loved when Alastor adjusted them absentmindedly, brows furrowing as he read or listened, lost in his own sharp, clever mind. His waves of brown hair were styled, but they refused to be tamed, much like the man they belonged to. Yet, it softened him, Vincent thought, made him look younger than a man nearing his thirties

Vincent wondered how many people looked at Alastor and saw only what the racism had told them to see—a bad color. Vincent saw something else entirely. He saw grace under pressure. He saw resilience worn as an ever-present smile. He admired Alastor the way one admired a cathedral built in defiance of gravity— aware of the danger, the cost, the audacity of loving something the world insisted should not exist.

Every glance felt like a transgression. Every softened look, every lingering second, was another step toward damnation.

Vincent knew exactly what it would cost him if anyone ever noticed the way his eyes followed Alastor, the way his voice lowered when he spoke to him, the way his anger sharpened whenever someone looked at Alastor with anything resembling contempt. Two men were not meant to look at each other this way. Not here. Not now. Not ever, according to the good book Vincent had been raised to obey.

Vincent didn't care. He was a fool for the valiant heart beating inside Alastor's chest.

If the price for loving another man meant hell, then so be it. Vincent would willingly descend, eyes open, heart unrepentant, carrying the image of Alastor as he was: brilliant, dignified, and worth every sin.

Alastor noticed his gaze. Of course he did. He always did.

"You're staring," he said quietly, without looking at him. He was aware Vincent's gaze had lingered for far too long now in that hopelessly devout and dangerous way. "Stop that before people notice."

Vincent didn’t look away. He had already decided, in a world determined to deny Alastor’s worth, he would be the one thing that never did.

He could only hope Alastor would have him in eternal damnation as well.

"I'm serious, Vincent. You need to stop staring at me like that," Alastor repeated.

"Like what?" Vincent asked quietly.

"You know exactly like what," Alastor replied sharply, eyes still forward, posture immaculate. "Like you've forgotten where we are."

"I can't help myself, angel. You're beautiful," Vincent said before he could weigh the words leaving his mouth.

"Vincent, we are in public," Alastor hissed, adjusting his glasses, fingers steady despite the tension in his shoulders. "People are already watching me enough without you looking at me like I'm—“ a pause. "Like you're hoping to put your lips on mine."

Vincent looked at him, his heterochromic eyes full of reckless aching.

"Maybe I am."

"Stop," Alastor whispered harshly. It wasn't anger. It was a warning. Careful and calculated. "Stop, or so help me, I will walk out of this building and take the bus home."

When Alastor was generous, he gave a complementary warning. After that, it was up to Vincent to check himself. If he didn't, then the next time he messed up, he wouldn't realize it until Alastor was leaving the premises without him.

Vincent didn't want that. He finally looked away and fixed his focus on the performing sea lions.

"Alright," he said, sincere now. "I'll stop."

"See that you do," Alastor replied. He adjusted his spectacles again, a habitual gesture meant to restore composure.

Vincent kept his eyes forward, his devotion tucked deep where it couldn't be seen. Where it couldn't harm either of them.

But inside him, it burned—constant and utterly unrepentant.

They stood like that for a while longer, close but careful, watching the sea lions play. Both of them were acutely aware of everything they were not allowed to do, and everything they felt anyway.

They moved on without saying it out loud, their feet turning in the same direction at the same time. Away from the bright exhibits and open spaces. They chose the narrower corridors where the light dropped low, and the walls curved inward. Down there, the tanks glowed like windows into other worlds in a mix of deep blues and greens. The rules still existed, but they felt dimmer here, softened by darkness and water.

Vincent bought a lemonade served in a thin paper cup from a small stand tucked between exhibits. He took a sip, grimaced at the sweetness, then held it out to Alastor without thinking.

Alastor hesitated—just a fraction—before taking it. Their fingers brushed, quick as a spark.

“You’ll get us in trouble,” Alastor murmured, though his mouth curved faintly before he took a sip.

“For lemonade?” Vincent asked.

“For sharing,” Alastor said and passed it back.

They traded the cup quietly as they walked, each sip quick, careful. The lemonade was warm and overly sweet, but Vincent found himself savoring it anyway, the knowledge that Alastor had just drunk from the same rim making it taste like something precious.

A tank of bioluminescent creatures glowed beside them, casting rippling light over their hands when the cup changed owners again. Vincent angled his body just slightly closer. Enough to feel Alastor’s presence without crossing the line.

Down here, in the hush and glow, the world narrowed. It was easy to pretend they were just two men wandering an aquarium, passing a drink, sharing quiet observations.

By the time they reached the end of the aquarium, the light had shifted again—brighter, whiter.

Vincent slowed, frowning slightly. “I—hold on. I’ve got to use the restroom before we go. I’ll be quick.”

Alastor nodded, already angling himself toward the wall near the exit, instinctively choosing a place where he took up as little space as possible.

“Go and handle that,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

Alastor watched him disappear down the hall.

Sunlight poured in through the glass doors. There was nowhere to blend in here, nowhere to be just another shadow moving along the wall. He stood with his hands folded neatly behind him, posture composed, expression polite. He'd perfected the look years ago, just like his mother taught him.

Pleasant. Contained. Unprovocative.

Alastor felt the looks almost immediately now that he was no longer a part of Vincent's company.

People passed and glanced twice. Some slowed and studied him like he was one of the sea animals behind a tank himself. Some frowned outright. A man nudged his wife and murdered something he pretended not to hear. Another man looked him up and down with open disdain, lips curling as if Alastor were a stain someone had failed to scrub away. A woman tugged her child closer as she went by.

Alastor stared past them all, eyes fixed ahead on a poster, though he couldn't tell you what it read.

Then a voice cut through the noise.

"You lost, boy?"

You’re imagining it, he told himself. Keep your head down.

The man approached anyway.

"Hey, I asked you a question, " said the man.

Alastor's shoulders tightened almost imperceptibly. He looked up just enough to acknowledge the man. White folk didn't like it when he raised his head too high. It gave the wrong impression that he was looking down on them, and that they didn't tolerate.

The man stood close—too close. He was middle-aged and dressed with the kind of confidence that came from never having to fear consequences. His eyes were sharp with interest, the wrong kind.

"No, sir," Alastor said evenly. "Just waiting."

The man snorted. "Waiting for what? There are places meant for you. This isn't one of 'em. Aquariums are for families and respectable folk."

Alastor felt his jaw tighten. A hundred responses rose to the surface—sharp, clever, deserved—and he swallowed every one of them. He knew better. One wrong word, one flicker of temper, and it wouldn't matter who started it. The police would take him without hesitation.

And that wasn’t the worst-case scenario.

“I’m waiting for my friend," Alastor stated calmly. Friend. The word tasted bitter and necessary. Vincent was a lot more than a friend. Alastor was brilliantly tangled in a forbidden romance with the television host, but he couldn't very well let the man know that.

The man laughed, sharp and humorless. "Waiting for a friend. Sure you are." He jerked his head toward the exit. "This ain't a place for strays. Get."

Alastor nodded once, a small, careful motion. "I assure you, I will be leaving shortly, sir."

However, this didn't satisfy the man. If anything, it seemed to upset him further.

"Heh, you people are always pushing, seeing how far you can go before someone puts you back in place."

Alastor stared past the man's shoulders. His tongue burned with things he wanted to say— witty, mean, devastating things. However, he intended to return to his mother, so he counted his breaths.

One. Two. Three.

"Did you sneak in here?" the man continued. "This place was whites only the last time I came here.”

"I do believe that may have been the case, sir. However, a sign on the side grants my permission to be here, under the condition that I pay for my admission, of course. The same as you, the same as everyone else," Alastor explained calmly.

The man clicked his tongue. "Don’t get smart with me, boy. You think that makes a difference? Take a look around, do you see any other negroes in this establishment? You ain't supposed to be here."

Alastor didn't respond this time. He could feel the familiar prickle, the warning that things were tipping in a dangerous direction. He shifted his weight subtly.

The man noticed.

"Don't look so nervous now," the man pressed forward, invading what little space remained, one hand braced casually against the railing beside Alastor's hip. "I haven’t done anything," he chuckled low, "yet. See, I got friends all over this city." The man dipped his head next to Alastor's ear. "Good men. Organized men." A pause. "You know the type."

The clan.

Alastor said nothing. His hands shook faintly now, the effort of holding himself together finally bleeding through. It wasn't a reaction born out of fear.

Alastor was angry.

It was a battle of dignity versus danger. Every instinct screamed to strike back, but the consequences, he knew, could be lethal.

It wasn't wise. It hardly ever was.

Vincent rounded the corner just in time to see the man pressing against him. He saw Alastor’s stillness—the way his shoulders were locked, the careful neutrality stretched too thin. He saw the man’s posture, invasive and smug, crowding him like ownership.

Vincent was already crossing the short distance.

"...the next time I catch you in here, we’ll string you up and make a nice little example outta you," the man was heard saying, smug and low.

“Hey," said a calm voice.

The man turned, already smiling, already preparing whatever lie he thought would smooth this over.

Vincent didn't give him the chance. He swung.

His fist landed square, brutal, a clean line of motion Vincent hadn’t known he possessed until it was already done. Bone met bone with a dull, final sound. The man staggered back, surprise frozen on his face, then crumpled to the floor like his strings had been cut. There wasn't so much as a yelp.

A woman screamed. People gasped. Heads turned.

Alastor stared at the fallen man, breath knocked out of him by the sheer suddenness of it.

"Vincent, what did you do?"

"Run," Vincent said, already moving.

He grabbed Alastor by the wrist and pulled. Alastor didn't resist. His body moved on instinct, feet scrambling to keep up as Vincent led him through the stunned crowd.

"Sir—!" someone called behind them.

They didn't stop.

They burst through the exit doors into sunlight and heat, the air slamming into them like a wall. Vincent didn't slow until they reached the car. He yanked the passenger door open, half-shoved Alastor inside, then rounded the hood and slid into the driver's seat.

Tires squealed as Vincent peeled out of the parking lot.

The car lurched forward, engine whining as Vincent pushed it faster than the road allowed. Shops and buildings blurred past the windows, signs snapping into streaks of color.

"Did he touch you?" Vincent demanded. "Did he hurt you?"

"Vincent—" Alastor braced one hand on the dashboard as the car took a turn too sharply. "Slow down."

"Damn it, Alastor," His voice cracked at the edges, fury tangled with fear. "Did he touch you?"

"He didn't," Alastor said quickly. "He didn't touch me."

Vincent didn't slow.

"Are you sure?" Vincent said, voice unsteady. "I saw him standing too close—

"Vincent," Alastor interrupted, voice sharp. "You are going to put both of us through that windshield. Slow down."

Vincent inhaled sharply and eased off the gas. The world outside stopped smearing into abstraction. He swallowed hard, eyes fixed ahead.

“You cannot do that,” Alastor said finally. His voice was controlled, measured, but there was a tightness to it, a thread pulled too far.

Vincent kept his eyes on the road. “He was threatening you.”

“I know what he was doing,” Alastor countered, “but you can’t just—react like that. You don’t get to. You’re white, but that doesn’t make you untouchable. You punch the wrong man in the wrong place, and suddenly you’re in handcuffs."

Vincent’s jaw flexed. “I wasn’t thinking.”

“That is exactly correct,” Alastor said. “You need to calm down.”

Vincent’s breathing was rough and uneven, like he was fighting himself not to turn back and do worse to the man. He snarled, his hands tightening on the steering wheel.

Alastor’s eyes trailed down then, catching on the color along Vincent's pale skin.

Blood.

It smeared dark and wet across Vincent’s knuckles, crimson catching in the creases of his skin.

"...Vincent."

"What?" Vincent said, scanning the road ahead.

"You're bleeding."

Vincent's gaze dropped, and he saw the blood at last. He swore under his breath. It must have started bleeding the second his fist connected—adrenaline masking it until now.

“Pull over," Alastor ordered.

“I’m fine,” Vincent said automatically.

“Pull. Over.”

"Al—

"Now, Vincent." Alastor's voice brooked no argument. Vincent exhaled. He guided the car to the side of the road and killed the engine.

Alastor turned fully toward him, anger softening into focused concern. Before Vincent could protest again, Alastor reached out and caught his wrist.

“Let me see.”

“It’s nothing,” Vincent said, but he let Alastor take his hand.

Alastor examined the damage with a practiced eye—split skin, bruising already blooming beneath the surface. His mouth tightened.

“You're hopeless,” he said quietly.

He released Vincent’s hand only to reach up and loosen Vincent’s tie. He tugged it free in one smooth motion, ignoring Vincent’s startled look.

“Hey—that’s silk—”

“Bite that tongue.”

Alastor dabbed the tie on the blood carefully, pressing it against Vincent’s knuckles. His fingers were steady now, gentler than Vincent expected after everything.

"He didn't touch me," Alastor said without looking up. "He only threatened me, that was all."

Vincent watched him, throat tight. "I don’t care that he didn't touch you. I care that he looked like he was about to. I care that he thought he could."

“Dear, I’ve survived men like that my entire life,” he said as he wrapped the tie around Vincent’s swelling hand. “I know how to endure them.” Alastor finally met his eyes. There was anger there still—but threaded through it was something warmer, something fierce and fragile all at once. "Next time, you let me decide when it’s worth the risk.”

Alastor tied the knot off neatly, then let go.

“Drive,” he said, leaning back in his seat, “like a sane man if you please."

Vincent started the engine, and the car lurched forward. For a few seconds, there was only the engine and the road.

It was too quiet.

Alastor's attention shifted back to Vincent. From the corner of his eye, he could see Vincent's gaze fixed ahead like he could burn a hole through the windshield if he tried hard enough.

Alastor sighed. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

“He was talking about the clan, Al. He wasn't just running his mouth. Christ. I leave you alone for five minutes.”

“You went to the bathroom,” Alastor shot back evenly. “Not to war. Besides, he was all bark."

Vincent's jaw clenched. "Men like that bite, Alastor."

"Yes," Alastor didn't deny it. "Eventually, some do. Still, you shouldn't have hit him," he said. "As gratifying as it may have been."

"I wasn't going to let him keep talking to you like that,” Vincent argued.

“Frankly, it would have been better if you had.”

Vincent couldn’t believe he’d just said that.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

"No," Alastor said. "It's supposed to make you listen. You get to make the mistakes I do not. But you are not spared from all consequences."

Vincent's stare hardened. "You think I didn't know that when I swung?"

"I think," Alastor said carefully, "You didn't care. You were sloppy."

Vincent snarled. "God forbid I care more about you than the law. I was trying to protect you."

They hit a stoplight. Alastor glanced at him.

"Protect me? By starting a scene? " Alastor said, every syllable polished, but there was a pull that suggested his calm was stretching thin. "Your reaction was unnecessary and potentially dangerous."

Vincent scoffed. "Unnecessary? Even if he didn't put his hands on you, he was threatening you."

"That does not justify your loss of control," Alastor fired back. "You cannot simply act on impulse every time you feel slighted. I was the sole recipient of that gentleman's unwanted attention. Any calls were mine to make."

"You were cornered!"

"I was composed."

"That man said he would—

"And you responded by throwing a punch in front of so many eyes," Alastor cut in, voice tightening. "Brilliantly discreet."

"Jesus, Alastor, I wasn't about to just stand there and let him—

"Let him what?" Alastor fired back, temper flaring. "Speak? Posture? So he said a few ugly things, Vincent. That's all he was doing before you came swinging like a madman."

"Oh, don't do that," Vincent snapped. "Don't talk down on me like I'm the idiot for caring.”

"I am not talking down to you," Alastor said, louder now. "I am trying to make you understand—

"Then stop lecturing me like you always do and start listening to what I'm saying!"

"Dammit, Vincent, I am listenin'," Alastor snapped. "But you ain't hearin' me at all.” His words were rough but unmistakably vulnerable.

Alastor's eyes flicked away as if his voice itself betrayed him. He adjusted his glasses as if resetting himself. "That sort of behavior draws attention we don't need." The drawl was gone, buried cleanly under crisp diction and careful restraint, his transatlantic cadence sliding back into place as smoothly as a suit jacket being tugged straight. "I will not entertain this discussion if you insist on being dramatic."

"Dramatic? Oh, that's rich. Alastor! he was on top of you!"

"For the last fucking time, he did not hurt me!" Alastor shouted, completely done with the scratched record conversation.

"But he could have!" Vincent shouted back.

"Yes," Alastor reached up and cupped Vincent's jaw, forcing him to look back at him. "And yet here I am. Breathing. Scolding you, tying your hand up like an overbearing housewife. You need to calm down. You don't get to decide to be reckless with my life because you're angry."

Vincent opened his mouth again— the look on his face suggested he was intent on saying something stubborn.

Alastor moved before the sentence could even start. He leaned across the narrow space between them, one hand bracing against the seat, the other grabbing him by the collar and pulling him in.

The kiss was not gentle. It was forecul. A command spoken through a sharp press of mouths that said stop, that said enough. Alastor kissed him like he was trying to steal the breath right out of his lungs, just to get him to shut up.

Vincent froze, eyes wide in shock. His counterargument dissolved into a startled sound swallowed between them. His grip on the wheel faltered just enough for Alastor to feel it.

Alastor didn't linger. He couldn't. Not here. He broke the kiss just as abruptly as it began, pulling away.

"Let it go already," Alastor murmured, "Please, Vincent."

Vincent stared at him, stunned.

"...You—“he started, then faltered. "You can't just… that's fighting dirty," he said finally, too flustered to come up with anything better

Alastor huffed a faint, smug breath. "Might I remind you that you were the one throwing punches, dear?"

The light finally turned green.

Vincent swallowed, eyes lingering on Alastor for a second too long before he put the car in gear. The car moved forward.

“You know,” Vincent said lightly, “for someone who just gave me a whole speech about danger and consequences, you’re awfully reckless yourself.”

Alastor arched a brow and cast him a side glance.

“Oh?”

Vincent smiled to himself-- the tension finally cracked enough for humor to slip through. "Kissing me at a red light? Anyone could've seen that."

"Anyone didn't."

"Don't evade it," Vincent said, grin widening. "You always act like I'm the sloppy one."

Alastor turned his head enough to look at Vincent properly. "Because, dearest, you are the sloppy one. You're seriously lecturing me about recklessness, Whittman?"

"Says the man who leaned across the console like he had no sense at all." Vincent shot back smugly.

Alastor scoffed, settling back into his seat, arms crossed. “Please. I wouldn't have done it if I hadn't been sure that no eyes were on us. It was hardly reckless.”

Vincent laughed under his breath. “It's always reckless when it’s us.”

Alastor turned to him once more, eyes sharp. “You want to talk about reckless?” He gestured pointedly at Vincent’s hands. “You punched a man in broad daylight, then got behind the wheel like you were trying to outrun the devil himself."

"That was get-away driving," Vincent said defensively.

"That was madman driving," Alastor shot back. "You took that turn like the laws of physics were a suggestion."

Vincent laughed. The sound was loose and fond. "I was keyed up."

"You were unhinged," Alastor corrected, though there was no heat in his words anymore.

"Well," Vincent said, grinning, "for the record, no one died."

"Miraculously."

Vincent shook his head, smiling, his tension fully eased. “So let me get this straight. I’m reckless for throwing a punch and speeding. But you?” He glanced over briefly. “You’re perfectly reasonable for kissing me in public.”

“I kissed you to stop you from getting us killed."

Vincent’s smile gentled. “Still reckless.”

“Only because you make me so, dear."

Vincent reached over and gave Alastor's knee a quick and affectionate squeeze before returning his hands to the wheel. "Admit it, we're both reckless."

Alastor glanced at him, lips quirking despite himself. "Don't push your luck, Whittman."

Vincent winced as he maneuvered the wheel for a turn.

Alastor noticed.

"Does it hurt?"

"...it stings."

"Good," Alastor replied. "Let it remind you that you're not invincible.”

That earned a breath of laughter from Vincent, “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” Alastor replied, “you keep showing up at my door.”

The humor settled into something quieter as the road stretched out ahead of them. Vincent drove with one hand steady on the wheel, the other resting uselessly in his lap. His smile faded, replaced by a thoughtful crease between his brows. His jaw tightened —but this time it wasn’t anger.

“Hey, I’m sorry,” he said, keeping his eyes on the street. “I shouldn’t have hit him. I shouldn't have put your life in danger in the car either. You're right. I was reckless."

Alastor looked over.

Vincent took a breath. “I just—” He sighed, frustrated with the prejudice in this country, in the state of Louisiana alone. “I get scared, Alastor," he admitted. "Every time some white man looks at you too long. Every time someone raises their voice at you. I think about what they might do to you if I don't step in first. I can never tell when it's going to turn ugly." His fingers flexed on the wheel. "I don't know how you stand it. The way they treat you like you're already guilty of something."

Alastor's expression softened, but there was something tired behind it. He turned his gaze back to the road ahead. "You get used to it, dear," he replied. Not bitter, just factual. "That's the part you hate, I think."

"How could I not, Al?"

Alastor’s expression hardened—not at Vincent, but at the truth of it.

“Vincent, I have to keep my head down,” he said quietly. “It's no pleasure being on the receiving end of their comments, trust me, but I have to prioritize endurance above all else. I must," Alastor continued. “If I wish to return to my mother by the end of each day.”

Vincent’s throat bobbed. "That's not living."

"Certainly not," Alastor agreed. "It's surviving. And sometimes that's all we're allowed."

"Screw the law," Vincent's eyes darkened. "I don't care about the rules."

"I do, "Alastor said, turning to face him. "Because the rules don't punish us equally." He didn’t hesitate to remind him. “When you lose your temper, the worst that happens to you is jail time. A night in a cell. Maybe a few. A bruised pride. A record you can eventually outrun." Alastor paused. "I don’t get that grace. I get a rope around my neck. Or a beating. I could get dragged out of this car and shot right in front of you, and the law would find a way to justify it."

Vincent’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Jesus, Al,” he whispered. "Don't say it like that."

"It's already like that," Alastor replied. "That’s why I needed you to stop,” he said, not harshly, but firmly. "I can’t afford your anger turning into something they can use against me."

Vincent pulled over without thinking, the car idling at a gas station. He turned to Alastor, eyes wet.

“You’re asking me to let it happen? Alastor, I would burn the world for you."

"Sugar, I'm not asking you to," Alastor said, resting his hand over Vincent's. "Stopping that man today does not dismantle the world that taught him he could do that. If you hit them without thinking, it'll make things worse. That anger you wield, it makes you forget who they'll hurt to get even.”

That landed. Vincent went very still.

"You," he said, voice cracking.

“Me,” Alastor confirmed. “And you.” He glanced at the wrapped knuckles. “You’re a white man, not some indestructible God, Vincent Whittman. If they want, they’ll shoot you, too. We're no good to each other dead. We cannot give them a reason to pull that trigger."

For a long moment, Vincent didn’t speak. Then he nodded, slow and pained. “Okay,” he said, eyes glossy. “Okay. I hear you.” He looked back at Alastor with fierce care. "I'll be more careful. I promise."

Alastor squeezed his hand. "Good boy. That's all I need."

The engine hummed low and steady as Vincent pulled away from the gas station.

Vincent heard the soft flick of the lighter before he saw the flame being guided to the cigarette between Alastor's lips. Alastor cupped it carefully, shielding it from the draft of the window he'd rolled down. He drew in, slow, and the cigarette tip flared. Vincent watched from the corner of his eye.

“You’re going to ruin your lungs. My boss says new studies show those’ll kill you.”

Smoke curled from the corner of Alastor's mouth as he exhaled.

"Mm. He said. "Not today."

Alastor took another drag. “You know,” he said casually. “I believe I owe you lunch.”

Vincent blinked. “You owe me?”

“Yes,” Alastor replied, tapping ash out the cracked window. “You punched a man, drove like a lunatic, and endured a lecture from yours truly. The least I can do is buy you a sandwich.”

Vincent laughed, soft and incredulous. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is if I say so,” Alastor replied.

A huff was coaxed out of Vincent, "That's your logic?"

"It's impeccable," Alastor said. "Besides, you stood up for me. Even if I wish you’d done it with a bit more restraint. Shall we dub it, reckless heroism?"

Vincent’s expression warmed. “You don’t owe me anything, Al.”

“Indulge me,” Alastor said, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. “After all that gallantry, you look like a man in desperate need of a proper meal.”

Vincent shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Alright. Lunch.”

“Good,” Alastor said. “I know a place that won’t mind us sitting in the same booth. A most darling host runs it."

Vincent nodded.

"And for the record—I would prefer it if no one else had to be punched between now and dessert."

Vincent smiled, eyes on the road. "No promises on tomorrow."

"Vincent."

"I'm kidding," he said quickly. "Thank you, baby."

"For what, dear?"

"For reeling me back."

Alastor blew out a cloud of smoke and looked out his window, watching the city slide by. "Someone has to keep you alive, darling," he said. "You are far too dramatic to be trusted with your own safety."

Alastor looked down at his wrist, where Vincent’s fingers had been when he took him and ran.