Right. Piano and singing tonight. Charm the room and then return to Vox's side. Pretty standard.
God, he was exhausted.
"I think I'll take you up on that offer," Alastor said brightly.
He didn't partake in cocaine all that often, but the booger sugar should give him a hit of energy and alertness he was currently lacking.
He went backstage. It wasn't hard to find someone doing lines and being willing to share for a few c-notes. He deeply inhaled a few white lines, tilting his head back and wiping off any excess powder with his handkerchief.
It wasn't perfect, but it'd do.
He bowed to the audience as they applauded before regaling them with a few songs, finishing up with crooning "I Don't Want to Set the World On Fire". It was the song he'd performed when Vox had found him singing for his supper. It only seemed right to sing it for him now.
Perfect! Alastor was perfect as always. This song was always nostalgic, in its own way... Vox wasn't usually the nostalgic sort, but that fated meeting was special.
"An absolute treat, one of the songs he performs best," Vox boasted casually to the up-and-coming Overlord currently being bewitched by the splendor of the party.
Sucker.
Anyway. A little bit of the wine goes nice with the sweet, sweet notes of the song from his darling radio.
Alastor rose to take his bows, smiling brightly at the audience that was fading in and out of focus. His heart jackhammered in his chest.
Oh fuck.
Still smiling and keeping his persona in place, he took the mic. "Thank you all for coming! We here at VoxTek pride ourselves on perfection, and we hope that tonight will be perfect for all of you! I leave you all in the capable claws of the Fallen Pentagram Jazz Orchestra!"
He walked offstage as the jazz orchestra took their cue. However, he didn't return to Vox's side, instead finding a place backstage to slump to the ground.
Calm down..just calm down...he needed to get back out on the floor. Get back to Vox's side.
Vox noticed pretty quickly that Alastor didn't come right to him. And noticed that he didn't come after a few minutes longer, too... what was that about? There were enough power players here that he didn't like the idea of his radio being unattended, lest he be scooped up by someone that wouldn't truly appreciate him.
Still, it takes a while longer before Vox can even navigate socializing enough to actually find the opportunity to slip away. Finally, he manages to slip backstage without anyone particularly noticing - time to see where that deer went.
Alastor had finally given in and laid down on his left side by that point, hoping the increased ease of bloodflow would help. Everything kept going in and out, his heart threatening to shatter his ribs with each beat.
He had to get back to Vox. He was overdue to return. Vox would be furious with him.
His voice but not spoken, simply projected from whatever he used as a speaker. It played over and over, too soft to be heard over the party.
He closed his eyes. Just...just a little nap. The floor was nice and cool, easing the overheating of his body. Just a quick five minutes and he'd be back out there making Vox proud.
...Huh. He'd seen that sort of thing plenty of times, but this was a first for Alastor - not being so fucked up he passed out in a hallway but specifically having a bad reaction to cocaine.
"There's my guy," Vox hummed, squatting next to where Alastor was passed out on the floor. "Overdid it on the coke, I see," he sighed, not bothering to hide any disappointment.
The disappointment forced Alastor's eyes to snap open. No. Not now. He couldn't sleep now.
"Sorry, sir," Alastor apologized as he sat up, ignoring the way his heartrate refused to just settle down. "I figured I probably got a bad cut and decided to get everything back under control. I'm fine now."
Perfection was their brand. Vox was perfect and could make himself even more.
Vox had made Alastor perfect. He would not let a bit of wear and tear make him obsolete.
Oh, aww, hah hahah. No. No, no. He can tell Alastor's either about to tweak out or black out, if the cut is that bad.
Instead, he just took Alastor's hand and rested his other on Alastor's hip, pulling them into a dance. The best way to keep Alastor from hurrying and scurrying off - his radio would never refuse a dance with his Overlord.
He would never refuse a dance with his Overlord under normal circumstances.
Right now, however, looking into Vox's screen was making his eyes water. A headache he had been too tired to take notice of pounded into a full-on migraine.
Too bright. Vox was too bright.
"Sir, I think we need to get back out there. We're leaving your guests wanting."
"In your condition right now? I don't think so," he chuckled in amusement, grip tightening on Alastor's hip. He could see the way Alastor's eyes were straining, watering - he really was about to drop, huh. "Tell me what's going on. Right now~"
There he goes. Vox wanted to meet those parted lips, but... nah. Can't play that game, he'll break his already fragile radio.
Instead, he cradled the back of Alastor's head and pulled it to his shoulder, releasing the man's hip to instead hug the small of his back, supporting more of his weight. He was going to be furious - but that could wait for after.
...Maybe he'll tear apart a few lower earners while Alastor's out. Might help blow off steam.
"I can do it," he murmured. "I can. I'll...I'll just rearrange a few more things. Breakfast can wait until after tomorrow morning's shoot. Or would that be more like lunch? I can skip it instead. No problem."
Fuck. It gives Vox the chance to properly pick Alastor up and carry him to the dressing room, laying the lanky man on the lounge after tossing aside the clothes draped over it. After settling Alastor, he took a seat on the makeup stool, opening up Alastor's schedule.
...He frowns.
That is not just a week or two. He's been working himself ragged - who the fuck scheduled all of this? Was that all Alastor?
Not happening. Fuck that. Vox starts culling the less important meetings - the other parties can arrange a reschedule. Did he need to take over Alastor's scheduling again? Why'd he do this? It wasn't like Vox was on the mend that long.
Motherfucker. Vox stood and kicked a trunk in front of the dresser door to keep anyone from barging in while he wasn't around, then zapped out of the room.
"Alright, alright, just had a little business to settle - hey, you've got the next band lined up, don't you? Better move your ass before I fry it!" Vox 'cheerfully' said through a far too tight smile. Ah well. Back to perfect presentation - he could be the star of the show for now. Alastor was gonna get fucking REAMED after this though.
Ah, the sycophants. Normally, he loved them - running them in circles was a fantastic passtime. But that potshot at Alastor was just the wrong snark at just the wrong time.
Not that Vox would let the perfect mask slip, of course!
"It's a little light on one side, I gotta admit! Say, pal, when did we Contract? Gosh, about seven years now? And you've been making good on your opportunities," Vox looped an arm around the man's shoulders, squeezing him uncomfortably close and walking. If the guy couldn't walk-and-talk, all the more reason to drag him along and make him sweat this out.
"Thaaaat's right, I remember seeing your name climbing up, Chandler!"
Was your name Chandler? Whatever, it's Chandler now!
"In that case, I think I have just the thing for you. See, I've got this little diva director - such a pain in the ass, aren't they always? - and he's been begging for a shining star to fill the main role. Ringing me off the hook every day, even! And I just don't think that Alastor is the right fit for that kind of role, but you? I bet you've got the right chops."
"It's 'Blaze', sir. Short for 'Starblaze'?" he offered hopefully.
However, his grin widened and his tail wagged. A role that Alastor didn't have the right chops for? A chink in the armor! Old bastard couldn't play every role after all!
"I'd be happy to step up, sir," he said with clearly false modesty.
Here was his chance to prove himself to the Boss and knock Alastor off the top spot! That busted old radio couldn't keep it forever!
----------
Meanwhile in the dressing room, Alastor groaned and sat up, bringing a hand to his head. Pings were stabbing at his aching brain like needles, but they weren't signals being sent directly to him from Vox. No, they were phone notifications chiming away like tinkling gunshots.
He slowly pulled his phone out of his pocket, sitting up as he tried to get his bearings. He was...what was he doing again? He was at some gig but which one?
He turned on the screen, looking down at his lockscreen of Vox from one of his advertisements, the company motto burning into his retinas:
At VoxTek, perfection is our brand. Trust us.
Four digits never felt so exhausting as he tapped out his passcode. He swiped down to see the alerts.
His blood froze.
Project after project alerted as "Reassigned".
"No! No no no no!" He kept swiping through the alerts before clearing them all and going to his calendar.
Most of his carefully-balanced schedule had been cleared.
"Starblaze, perfect! I'll let Travis know you're taking the role and I'll forward your information to Valentino. Good luck, bud!" Vox finally let go of the actor, giving him a hearty pat on the back before cleanly breaking to engage someone else in conversation, oblivious to the shitstorm brewing backstage.
Starblaze paled. "V-Valentino?! Wait! Sir! Boss! Please reconsider! I'm sure Alastor would be waaaay more qualified in that role!"
Everyone knew the hasbeens were sent to Valentino to squeeze every last drop of money out of their dwindling popularity.
----------
A sane and rational man would take the clearing of his schedule and a trunk blocking his door as a sign to get what rest he could before he was thrown to the dogs. Particularly when he was running on fumes and cocaine.
Alastor was neither sane nor rational at the moment. Instead, he took a few minutes to have a good cry. Then he shoved the trunk out of the way, struggling for every inch.
He swapped his now-sweaty jacket and shirt for something else that would match in the dressing room before sitting down in the makeup chair. His hair and face was a mess.
Clean off the old makeup. Ignore the haggard appearance hiding beneath it. Start fixing your hair. Then you can apply new. He forced himself to lose himself in the simple rhythm of routine.
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Right. Piano and singing tonight. Charm the room and then return to Vox's side. Pretty standard.
God, he was exhausted.
"I think I'll take you up on that offer," Alastor said brightly.
He didn't partake in cocaine all that often, but the booger sugar should give him a hit of energy and alertness he was currently lacking.
He went backstage. It wasn't hard to find someone doing lines and being willing to share for a few c-notes. He deeply inhaled a few white lines, tilting his head back and wiping off any excess powder with his handkerchief.
It wasn't perfect, but it'd do.
He bowed to the audience as they applauded before regaling them with a few songs, finishing up with crooning "I Don't Want to Set the World On Fire". It was the song he'd performed when Vox had found him singing for his supper. It only seemed right to sing it for him now.
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"An absolute treat, one of the songs he performs best," Vox boasted casually to the up-and-coming Overlord currently being bewitched by the splendor of the party.
Sucker.
Anyway. A little bit of the wine goes nice with the sweet, sweet notes of the song from his darling radio.
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Oh fuck.
Still smiling and keeping his persona in place, he took the mic. "Thank you all for coming! We here at VoxTek pride ourselves on perfection, and we hope that tonight will be perfect for all of you! I leave you all in the capable claws of the Fallen Pentagram Jazz Orchestra!"
He walked offstage as the jazz orchestra took their cue. However, he didn't return to Vox's side, instead finding a place backstage to slump to the ground.
Calm down..just calm down...he needed to get back out on the floor. Get back to Vox's side.
Don't blow it. Don't blow it...
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Still, it takes a while longer before Vox can even navigate socializing enough to actually find the opportunity to slip away. Finally, he manages to slip backstage without anyone particularly noticing - time to see where that deer went.
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He had to get back to Vox. He was overdue to return. Vox would be furious with him.
A̛̦̠͙͈̾́̈́t̲̩̋̀ ̰̋͛ͅV͍̎o͓̩̦̞̻͋̆͂̆͘x͉̦͋̋̕ͅT̙͒e̢͇͚̔̉͡k̖͒,̢̠̍̒ ̣̿p̬͖̬͎͛̄̈͞é̛͍̬r̲̩̪͂̋͛͒͢f̨̛̫͙̣̓̓̓e̼͗c̝͘t̳̬̠͔̘̔̒̇̾͞i͉͞ổ̡̗̥͙͖̕͞͡n̹̑ ̢̛͕̀i͚̜͇̎̎̈́s ̨̝̼͈̓͐̿̊ȯ͓̟͇͂͠u̮̲͆̿͢͞r̘̮̼͔̉̓͋͗ ͚̽b̭̀r̘͚̖̺͐͋͝͞a̢̛̯͕̗̅̄͞n̟̍d̜̖͇͚͗̓̕͠.̹̪̖̤͋͋̿͘ T̫͔͛͌r͈̖̉͘u̫̮̲̮͊̈͝͡s͓̦͌͠t͇͘ ̭̼͇͂̃̀͟͞u͇̅s̘̖̎͞.
His voice but not spoken, simply projected from whatever he used as a speaker. It played over and over, too soft to be heard over the party.
He closed his eyes. Just...just a little nap. The floor was nice and cool, easing the overheating of his body. Just a quick five minutes and he'd be back out there making Vox proud.
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"There's my guy," Vox hummed, squatting next to where Alastor was passed out on the floor. "Overdid it on the coke, I see," he sighed, not bothering to hide any disappointment.
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"Sorry, sir," Alastor apologized as he sat up, ignoring the way his heartrate refused to just settle down. "I figured I probably got a bad cut and decided to get everything back under control. I'm fine now."
Perfection was their brand. Vox was perfect and could make himself even more.
Vox had made Alastor perfect. He would not let a bit of wear and tear make him obsolete.
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Instead, he just took Alastor's hand and rested his other on Alastor's hip, pulling them into a dance. The best way to keep Alastor from hurrying and scurrying off - his radio would never refuse a dance with his Overlord.
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Right now, however, looking into Vox's screen was making his eyes water. A headache he had been too tired to take notice of pounded into a full-on migraine.
Too bright. Vox was too bright.
"Sir, I think we need to get back out there. We're leaving your guests wanting."
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He's going to throw you out! Get it together!
His signal was spiraling wildly, a box of spare lightbulbs somewhere close by popping almost all at once.
Suddenly he wasn't backstage somewhere. He was in a filthy alley, a John's hand tightly gripping his hip.
Y͈̻͔̌̃͂̀͜ö̲̭́͘ǔ̟̜̠̎͋ ̢̛͖̎w̞̗̝̃͒̓ą̛̠̹͑̍͋͟ṉ̪́̿ţ̹̞̓̀͝ ͈͈̿͞ä̛̤̞̻̥̏̚ ͔̒m̢̖̏̍͗ͅe͇̎a̲̪͛͠l͓͂,̡̤̳̓̄͌ ̰͑dö̜̤́͠n'̪͕̩̃̀̓̋͜t͕̊ y̢͎̜̒̀͠ȏ͚̻͆ü̫̳̜̈̓̅͜?
He closed his eyes and leaned towards the John, lips slightly parted. He was so tired he could drop.
No. He wasn't in an alley. He was backstage. With his overlord. Wasn't he?
He started to shake as his body's exhaustion fought with the cocaine's stimulation.
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Instead, he cradled the back of Alastor's head and pulled it to his shoulder, releasing the man's hip to instead hug the small of his back, supporting more of his weight. He was going to be furious - but that could wait for after.
...Maybe he'll tear apart a few lower earners while Alastor's out. Might help blow off steam.
Anyway.
"Shh, my deer."
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He didn't have any shoots in the morning.
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He slumped into Vox's arms, going limp.
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...He frowns.
That is not just a week or two. He's been working himself ragged - who the fuck scheduled all of this? Was that all Alastor?
Not happening. Fuck that. Vox starts culling the less important meetings - the other parties can arrange a reschedule. Did he need to take over Alastor's scheduling again? Why'd he do this? It wasn't like Vox was on the mend that long.
"Stupid fucker. What the fuck were you doing..."
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"Mr. Vox? Are you there? Your guests are wondering where you are."
Alastor didn't even twitch at the knocking. Unusual given he was normally such a light sleeper.
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"Alright, alright, just had a little business to settle - hey, you've got the next band lined up, don't you? Better move your ass before I fry it!" Vox 'cheerfully' said through a far too tight smile. Ah well. Back to perfect presentation - he could be the star of the show for now. Alastor was gonna get fucking REAMED after this though.
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Two actors and an actress off to one side were looking towards Vox with eager anticipation. One of the actors adjusted his coat before striding over.
"Hey, Boss. Couldn't help noticing your shadow vanished. Need someone to fill his spot?"
The actor had been contracted to Vox for about two years. A fine up-and-comer whose popularity didn't rival Alastor’s. Yet.
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Not that Vox would let the perfect mask slip, of course!
"It's a little light on one side, I gotta admit! Say, pal, when did we Contract? Gosh, about seven years now? And you've been making good on your opportunities," Vox looped an arm around the man's shoulders, squeezing him uncomfortably close and walking. If the guy couldn't walk-and-talk, all the more reason to drag him along and make him sweat this out.
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This man? Had no idea.
"Two, actually." He grinned as he walked with Vox. Like a lamb to slaughter. "I hit Number 2 in the popularity polls last week."
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Was your name Chandler? Whatever, it's Chandler now!
"In that case, I think I have just the thing for you. See, I've got this little diva director - such a pain in the ass, aren't they always? - and he's been begging for a shining star to fill the main role. Ringing me off the hook every day, even! And I just don't think that Alastor is the right fit for that kind of role, but you? I bet you've got the right chops."
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However, his grin widened and his tail wagged. A role that Alastor didn't have the right chops for? A chink in the armor! Old bastard couldn't play every role after all!
"I'd be happy to step up, sir," he said with clearly false modesty.
Here was his chance to prove himself to the Boss and knock Alastor off the top spot! That busted old radio couldn't keep it forever!
----------
Meanwhile in the dressing room, Alastor groaned and sat up, bringing a hand to his head. Pings were stabbing at his aching brain like needles, but they weren't signals being sent directly to him from Vox. No, they were phone notifications chiming away like tinkling gunshots.
He slowly pulled his phone out of his pocket, sitting up as he tried to get his bearings. He was...what was he doing again? He was at some gig but which one?
He turned on the screen, looking down at his lockscreen of Vox from one of his advertisements, the company motto burning into his retinas:
At VoxTek, perfection is our brand. Trust us.
Four digits never felt so exhausting as he tapped out his passcode. He swiped down to see the alerts.
His blood froze.
Project after project alerted as "Reassigned".
"No! No no no no!" He kept swiping through the alerts before clearing them all and going to his calendar.
Most of his carefully-balanced schedule had been cleared.
"No no no!"
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Everyone knew the hasbeens were sent to Valentino to squeeze every last drop of money out of their dwindling popularity.
----------
A sane and rational man would take the clearing of his schedule and a trunk blocking his door as a sign to get what rest he could before he was thrown to the dogs. Particularly when he was running on fumes and cocaine.
Alastor was neither sane nor rational at the moment. Instead, he took a few minutes to have a good cry. Then he shoved the trunk out of the way, struggling for every inch.
He swapped his now-sweaty jacket and shirt for something else that would match in the dressing room before sitting down in the makeup chair. His hair and face was a mess.
Clean off the old makeup. Ignore the haggard appearance hiding beneath it. Start fixing your hair. Then you can apply new. He forced himself to lose himself in the simple rhythm of routine.
At VoxTek, perfection is our brand. Trust us.
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