Live On Air

Maybe it was true after all. Maybe Vox had lost his mind entirely. Raked his claws across Alastor’s face until he bled. Blamed it on something that didn’t exist. Blamed it on someone else.

Red soaking between his fingers now.

Itching in the back of his mind. Death. Death. Blood means death. Whispers never far behind.

Static filling the room where they are alone. They are alone.

“Stop. Stop that now. How did you do it? How did you get into my—”

The thought cuts itself off at the knees. It’s impossible for Vox to reach the threads without Alastor making it so. He can barely snap them himself, not without effort, Vox couldn’t.

“I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense.”

he's panicking. it's everywhere in the frequency now, so much more than even before, everywhere he looks. trying to find the way to explain but there's nothing but dead ends and whispers that won't leave him alone. he knows what alastor is thinking because it's being muttered into his mind, unprovoked.

he thinks you're lying. you are a liar, anyway. how can you convince him?

can he? is there a world where he can muster enough raw sincerity to plead his case?

he presses his screen to the floor instead. bow down. take responsibility. it's your fault.

❛ it was an accident, i swear on my soul. i wouldn't hurt you like that again. ❜ it's an event he should have no knowledge of, not intimately, but this sentience is beyond what he can measure, and he knows. he know how they snapped in the tower so many years ago, he knows it's his fault, he knows he's always at fault, and it doesn't matter if he couldn't have know, he does now.

❛ just - i'm sorry. it won't happen again. i'll be good. i'll be good. ❜

a plea, a begging. he will beg for this. potámi please.

he knows something is coming, he knows the strike is readied, and he waits for it. to fall or to hit its' target, it doesn't matter which. he can't do this, he can't fight and win, and he knows that.

❛ it'll be over soon. midnight, i saw it, that's what lee said. it can go back to normal. ❜

the whispering of a secret does not ease his mind any.

And a soft laugh, musical and full. The shadow tinged with gold hums away the same tune as before. One associated with Alastor and poured into his being.

The threat already in motion; you could not plead it away no matter how much you begged. How much you bled.

“Vox, get up.”

His tone far too harsh to be comforting, but it is genuine and filled with worry nonetheless. The longer Vox stayed at his feet, the more anxiety crept into the corners of his own mind. Unfair to both of them. There was no reason to fall this way.

“You’re scaring me.”

The stitches are soon replaced, heavy and tight and twisted. Alastor cannot focus right now on both, so both falter. He is subpar at mending, subpar at comforting.

The glow fades from underneath his hand, and he can finally reach for Vox. Both hands gentle, despite the shaking fury one held just a moment ago.

Let them breathe.

“It’s over. Whatever it is, it’s over.”

For now.

Alastor himself seems suspended in time, clock frozen, those same worried eyes and strained smile.

“Every misunderstanding, every harsh tone, every brutal word are all mine.”

The invisible hand reaches over Alastor’s shoulder and cups his cheek. A solid dark pointed nail makes itself known. Looping into something unseen.

“Every broken stitch.”

And rips it out.

“Be more careful next time.”

And Alastor came back into the moment, as if it never paused.

His smile more distorted now as his hand flew to cover his face. In pain, agonizing. A look of betrayal as he registered that he and Vox were supposedly the only ones in the room.

of course he does. in this moment, this hellish two days beyond anything cruel he'd ever felt, he knew. he also knew there was no such thing as irredeemable, even for the worst of the worse, in which there was only one. but even that one was mourned, lost, missed. even if it shouldn't have been, and that would never change.

for a moment, he could have thought that they were being nice, that it was some terrible condescension, but nothing more, until something is clearly ripped, and he swore he could hear the sound of it torn, snapped, something he had never seen in person, not really, not but one time.

he's frozen in shock. the entity is not gone, never gone, but distant again now, further away and no longer tugging on anything. but the damage is done, and he finds himself dropping to his knees in front of alastor, staring up at what is undeniably his own fault.

❛ i'm ... i didn't ... i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i provoked them, that's — i didn't realise they would hurt you because of me, i'm sorry. ❜

he doesn't know how to explain, because he doesn't understand, and he doesn't know how to apologise without sounding insane.

❛ i won't make that mistake again, i swear. ❜

Maybe it was true after all. Maybe Vox had lost his mind entirely. Raked his claws across Alastor’s face until he bled. Blamed it on something that didn’t exist. Blamed it on someone else.

Red soaking between his fingers now.

Itching in the back of his mind. Death. Death. Blood means death. Whispers never far behind.

Static filling the room where they are alone. They are alone.

“Stop. Stop that now. How did you do it? How did you get into my—”

The thought cuts itself off at the knees. It’s impossible for Vox to reach the threads without Alastor making it so. He can barely snap them himself, not without effort, Vox couldn’t.

“I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense.”

@staticintone whispered a line threat !! m!a: rp sentient ( accepting until midnight! ) “You should be nicer to me, Vox. I can kill him.”

it's like his heart froze over. because he knew it was true. the two beings had certainly killed him, over and over again even just in one world's iteration. he dies all the time, and maybe that should bother him, but death is just another part of life in hell, really. and that should be true in alastor's case, too, but somehow he can't bring himself to say another harsh word.

if they're so willing to destroy what they create, he needs to be more careful. his energy is sapped all at once, and suddenly he is quite small.

❛ okay. okay. please, don't. ❜

he would rather die again.

Alastor himself seems suspended in time, clock frozen, those same worried eyes and strained smile.

“Every misunderstanding, every harsh tone, every brutal word are all mine.”

The invisible hand reaches over Alastor’s shoulder and cups his cheek. A solid dark pointed nail makes itself known. Looping into something unseen.

“Every broken stitch.”

And rips it out.

“Be more careful next time.”

And Alastor came back into the moment, as if it never paused.

His smile more distorted now as his hand flew to cover his face. In pain, agonizing. A look of betrayal as he registered that he and Vox were supposedly the only ones in the room.

@staticintone PHONED IN ! – “So… about Vox.” / @voxxisms m!a specific

❝ I know. ❞ Spoken in the tone of an elder gossip, laced with that certain brand of concern and, no doubt, a bit of judgement.

It's mostly concern. Mostly.

At the very least, he knew that he could trust Armand with whatever this was.

It was starting to haunt him.

“What?”

“Don’t worry about speaking, Vox. I can hear your thoughts just the same, if not more.”

Alastor was concerned, he couldn’t comprehend this seeming break in Vox. It sounded as though it could have been some recognition—but that wasn’t possible, was it?

Was Vox contracted too?

“Pulling the strings?”

Can you feel the smile? As they speak simultaneously? Can you feel the very air mocking you?

“What has gotten into you? Talk to me, what is going on?”

Do you feel less real, Vox? Knowing your God?

this couldn't be real. maybe they were right, the others. maybe he was finally losing it, whatever sense and semblance of sanity he had left. had the hours of lacking sleep, refusing to care for himself, finally resulted in some sort of mental break that he couldn't comprehend? that left others looking at him with pity in their gazes?

can he feel it? yes. yes, he can. he can sense the creaking of strings, both physical and not, the whispers are around and inside of him in a way that feels like it's stealing the air out of his lungs. artificial though they may be, they still draw it in, a natural urge.

he doesn't know his god, though. his god, ha! he hates it. but how can he disagree? no matter what he tries, he cannot separate himself from them. lee, whoever they are, feel miles away, watching from rounded, metal framed glasses from a universe he could never reach, surely. secure and safe from him, always watching, waiting, listening.

he knows more about potámi than he does about lee; they're speaking, after all.

❛ you won't believe me. ❜ how can he explain? would it ever be enough to break through whatever barrier they typically keep up? or is it only when they allow it to fall? could he pierce through on his own, or would it be their choice, instead?

❛ there are these ... entities. they don't feel like people, they feel like ... gods. otherworldly. but they decide everything, al, everything about us. i've always said i was made for you, you know, in my own mind, but i think it's literal. they ... they came together, they planned our whole lives! still do, and in other world, other universes and timelines, they play with us like pawns. like dolls in a dollhouse. i've been slaughtered, sick, human, a sin, an angel, a contracted soul, it never ends. you've been in my head in some of them, and i've died and killed for you a thousand times, it feels like, but it's all because of them! i don't know which actions are really mine. ❜

he's come closer to alastor, desperate to touch him, to know he's there. something needs to be real.

he is real, isn't he?

While Alastor’s voice is sturdy but hollow, there’s a gentleness to the second tone. Taking pity on the puppet, as the puppeteer allows the dance to continue.

Vox’s outreach does not go unnoticed, and Alastor is quick to take his hands. He is real. His movements are the same as they always have been. Nothing about him has changed, not in the eighty years the two have been intertwined.

Why would that be any different now?

His grasp is tight, concerned. The panic in Vox’s voice is too concrete to be ignored. Does he believe him? Does that even matter?

“Where did this come from?”

Asking the wrong questions perhaps, but if Alastor can direct away from the problem at hand… Maybe he wouldn’t feel those nails digging into him so sharply.

“Do you really think he’s less just because he’s mine?”

“… Do you really think your words are no longer your own?”

The whispers in the darkness will not let up. Speaking mockingly, sweetly, cruelly, in every voice Vox had ever heard from Alastor’s lips. The melody in the air a blanket, both smothering and cradling at once.