SIGN AND CASH IN!

His eyes widen in shock as Valentino goes off. He blinks in a slight flinch as Val pokes his face, then carries on his rant.

Some level of shock accompanies Valentino's exposé of Alastor and the effects his mind games had on Vox. He'd been idolizing the Radio Demon since before his death, recognizing the talent in his voice through his radio show. Meeting him in Hell had felt like a dream come true, a pioneer of modern entertainment and everything Vox ever dreamed about- Sure, he'd taken the television world by storm, rising to greater levels of fame than Alastor's measly little radio performance ever had, but that had not erased the worth of it in Vox's eyes- Even in the heights of his greatest smear campaigns against the Radio Demon he'd held onto that shard of hero worship, unable to let it go no matter how much he claimed to despise the grinning overlord.

And... He's more or less assumed everyone else felt the same way. Perhaps not as fanatically as Vox had felt as so few people actually understood media the way he did- but people knew Alastor's name in Hell for a reason.

Was it true? Valentino's proclamations? Was Alastor's pizazz just smoke and mirrors? Was he truly alone? What about the dumb hotel?

He wanted to ask, but glancing up at Valentino he can basically see that keeping the Radio Demon in the room with them even by mention alone would not be a smart move right now. So he lets his nervous ruminations coil in his gut instead.

His partners had never tried to stop his hate crusade before, nor had they really confronted him about it until they were staring down the barrel of Lilth's Might, and literally ripping his head from his shoulders.

A pained echo of grounding sensation pulsed at his neck, and he subconsciously rubbed a hand against the tendons of his neck, brows furrowing in contemplation. Even as Valentino's anger remained clear and palpable the way he talked about Vox. The words he was saying sounded an awful lot like... adoration. A more hopeful glimmer filled his eyes as Valentino insisted that he would have won if he hadn't let Alastor fuck with his head.

The hope turns to something more self-conscious as Valentino looks at him, even shitfaced, he saw his many flaws more clearly than perhaps anyone ever had before, somehow still sticking by his side despite that. The absolute agony of being perceived, Vox longed for his various showman personas as the breath caught in his chest and he tried to squeeze it out anyway, misty eyed, and blinking rapidly as Val started to drift off due to the alcoholic stupor, the drink hadn't done many favors to Vox either as he fell uncharacteristically quiet, grappling with his own swarm of emotions, and doing his best to keep them locked up inside.

It occurred to him that he longed for that adoration again, he doesn't want Val to see him broken. He wants to be loved the way he'd sounded before. He wishes he could say it out loud, the words are like rocks pinning his tongue down.

Vox glances at Val.

Truth be told, Valentino was relieved that Vox didn't press him on everything he'd blurted out during his drunken tirade about Alastor. The alcohol hadn't made him lie; if anything, it had stripped away the filter he normally kept over those thoughts, leaving everything raw and unguarded. Nothing he'd said had been exaggerated. He meant every word of it. He still thought Alastor was a hypocrite, a manipulator, a gaslighter who always managed to twist situations just enough to make everyone else question themselves instead.

And somehow, every single time, Vox bought into it.

Still, Valentino wasn't in the right headspace to unpack all of that tonight. The words were out there now, hanging between them, and maybe that was enough for the moment. Maybe Vox needed to sit with them for a while instead of trying to argue his way around them. If nothing else, Valentino hoped he'd actually think about what had been said.

Right now, all Valentino wanted was to stop thinking altogether. Bed sounded nice. He’d fallen asleep just about everywhere in the penthouse over the years. The couch, the kitchen island, the bathtub, even the floor once after a particularly wild party, but bed sounded amazing. "Yeah..." he mumbled, nodding though the motion lacked any real rhythm. "...I drank all of that way too fast." His words slurred together as his eyelids drifted closed again, and for a moment his head slowly tipped forward toward his chest before his body caught itself with a small jerk, blinking himself halfway awake. "... Bed." The word came out as little more than a sleepy mumble.

He planted one hand against the arm of the sofa and pushed himself upright. It took more effort than he expected, and once he was standing, there was a noticeable sway to him. Without really thinking about it, two of his four hands reached instinctively for Vox.

He was still angry. That hadn't changed.

But the rum had sanded down the sharp edges of that anger, lowering his guard enough that he slipped back into old habits without realizing it. Even now, after everything, he still trusted Vox to steady him before he trusted the room to stop spinning. He caught himself leaning into the support with a tired sigh. "Don't read into it," he muttered, already anticipating some smug look Vox might give him. "I'm still pissed at you." A beat passed before he added, "I just..." He yawned, the sentence stalling out. "... don't wanna fall on my face."

@veelentino || continued.

He'd already started into the room by the time Valentino asked his question, and Angel froze on the spot. Had he said something about spending time with Husk when he was ratting on the hotel? No... it had to be that night at the club. He'd been chasing Niffty around that night, but had he been with Husk when he approached Valentino?

Oh, wait. He'd come with Cherri to 'save' him, hadn't he? And ended up saving Cherri instead. What a night that was...

"No," his expression softened, eyes darting away before returning to his boss. "I... had Fat Nuggets in my room, and sometimes Cherri crashed with me." Because there was no way in Hell he was going to admit to wanting Husk in his bed when they were spending all their time together.

"You okay?" He had to ask. The biting question about Husk had raised the fur on the back of his neck, and he needed to make sure that Val was okay if he was going to be spending the night with him. He didn't need him in a bad mood when he was going to shut his brain off for a handful of hours and let his guard down.

"I never said ya were my second choice, Val. I thought I told ya why I was movin' ta the hotel... Everythin's free there... Room, food, even booze. It had nothin' ta do with you bein' my 'second choice'." He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, eyes shifting this way and that as he double checked his surroundings to know what exactly was around him.

"An' I came back. Don't that mean anything?"

"You didn't come back for my sake." Valentino said it bluntly, without raising his voice. "There isn't any point lying to me about it, Angel." He wasn't interested in hearing reassurances he didn't believe. Before Angel could respond, Valentino reached out and took hold of his bicep. The grip wasn't rough, but it was firm enough to guide him fully inside the bedroom before he pushed the door shut behind them with a quiet click.

"I'm going through a lot right now, okay?" He rubbed a hand over his face, already sounding exhausted by the conversation. "Not that you give a shit, but finding out I'm not only second in your eyes but Vox's too?" His jaw tightened. "Kinda fucking sucks."

The admission hung in the air for a moment before he shook his head. "I don't want to talk about it." He meant it. At least, he wanted to mean it. He took a few steps toward the bathroom before speaking again anyway. "I know I'm not fucking perfect, but who the fuck is down here?" It wasn't really a question.

Nobody in Hell was perfect. That was the whole point.

Valentino seemed dimly aware of the contradiction in insisting he didn't want to talk while continuing to vent, but he didn't acknowledge it. The words had escaped before he could stop them, and now he was done.

Oh, okay. So that's how they're playing it. He nonchalantly moves his head to the side as the TUMs container flies past him and clatters against the nearest wall, rolling his eyes briefly. "What are you, five?" he drawls out, crossing his arms as he stands up from his desk. "Because throwing things around like a fucking toddler when you don't get your way stopped being amusing decades ago, Val. Use your words for once. Does the ickle baby want some soup because his tum tum hurts?"

"Yes. He does." Valentino crossed both sets of arms tightly across his chest and stalked over to the couch lining the wall of Vox's office. He practically threw himself onto it. If throwing things around wasn't supposed to solve anything, then why did it work every single time?

Why was it that the only time people seemed to actually stop, listen, and take him seriously was after he'd made enough of a scene that they couldn't ignore him anymore? The thought lingered in the back of his mind, but he didn't say it out loud.