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Vox can’t even remember what started this argument in the first place. A disagreement about the location of a new club Valentino wants to start, maybe. It doesn’t really matter at this point—they’ve long devolved from any rational discussion into just screaming insults at each other. He’s not unused to getting into spats with his partner, given both their tempers, but it’s been a while since it’s gotten this bad.
He knows he should put a stop to it, try to placate Valentino with an offer of dinner or a new dress or something, but his pride prevents him from doing so. He just wants Valentino to listen to him sometimes, damnit.
“You are such a fucking tightass, Vox,” Valentino snarls.
Vox rolls his eyes. “Is that the best insult you can come up with? You’re off your game, Val.”
“Oh, fuck you.”
“Well you could, except you’re being a giant bitch right now!”
Valentino’s antennae are twitching wildly, a sure sign he’s getting to the point where he’s running out of things to say. Good. Vox is ready for this to be done with. Valentino will be over it by morning—he always is. Then they can go back to normal, Vox can smooth things over with a few gifts, and Valentino will finally see sense.
“That’s fucking rich coming from you. If you think you’re getting any for the next month you’re dead wrong.”
No such luck, apparently. “You’re being fucking hysterical, you know that?”
Valentino’s face contorts with fury. He raises a hand, and Vox realizes what’s about to happen a split-second too late.
A fist connects with the left side of his screen, hard enough to send spidery cracks across the surface. Error codes flicker across Vox’s range of vision before he shoves them away. “Motherfuxxcker!” He shouts, voice glitching. “What the fuck?”
“Don’t call me hysterical,” Valentino hisses. “I’ll show you hysterical, bitch. Now get out and leave me alone.” He turns away and stalks off to the other side of the room. Vox watches as he puts out the remnants of his current cigarette and reaches for another one, grumbling to himself all the while.
For a moment, Vox simply stands there, processing what the hell just happened. Then he marches across the room to Valentino, grabbing him by the shoulder and spinning him back around to face him.
“What?” Valentino snaps. “I told you to leave me the hell alo—”
Vox slaps him across the face so hard Valentino actually stumbles back, head jerking to the side from the force of the blow. His fur stands on end thanks to the electricity that coursed through Vox’s claws as he struck him.
For a moment, neither of them move, frozen. The air crackles with static. Then Valentino lunges forward, fists raised, but Vox had been expecting this. He catches Valentino’s wrists, digs his fingers in, and sends electricity racing into his partner’s nervous system.
Valentino seizes, trying to pull back. For a moment he only thrashes desperately as Vox keeps an iron grip on his wrists, but he finally manages to rip himself away, snarling and panting. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, full of disbelief and anger and another emotion Vox can’t quite recognize.
“You can’t hit me,” Valentino says. He’s practically vibrating with rage. “You’re not allowed to—you can’t hit me!”
Vox sneers, cruel and mocking and hopefully masking the way his heart is breaking apart inside his chest. “Baby, I can do whatever the hell I want.” His hand sparks again, a warning he prays Valentino heeds. Don’t make me do that again, he begs silently. “You’re the one who hit me first, you fucking hypocrite.”
“That’s—it’s different, you were being stupid, I just—” Never before has Vox heard Valentino stumble over his words like this. “You can’t hit me!” He repeats, as if it will make any difference.
“Then don’t hit me!” Vox throws his hands up in exasperation, and Valentino flinches back. Vox wants to vomit from despair.
“Fuck you!” Valentino screams, stamping his foot like a child before turning on his heel and storming out of the room.
Vox stares after him, trying to steady his breathing.
He knows Valentino gets physical when he’s angry. He’s seen it countless times before, when Valentino’s whores won’t fall in line as fast or obediently as he wants them to. It’s not like he’s judging; several of his own employees have endured his voltage when they underperform. They’re no strangers to violence, but never before have they turned that violence on each other. Not until now.
Fuck.
Vox sighs, cursing under his breath. He pulls out his phone and starts flicking through the cameras he’s begun to install everywhere he can, searching for wherever Valentino has run off to pout. He doesn’t bother ordering flowers or jewelry just yet; those sort of appeasements only work when Valentino has gotten out of his “throwing things” stage of his tantrums.
Normally, he’d let Valentino stew in his anger, work it out on his own. It’s easier. But nothing about this is normal.
Vox finally finds him on the balcony of their penthouse, staring out at the smog-filled sky of Pride. He zaps through the camera, materializing behind his partner and clearing his throat. Valentino doesn’t acknowledge him.
“Val.”
No response.
“We’re supposed to be equals, Val,” Vox says quietly. “You can’t just hit me like one of your whores and expect me to take it. You’re telling me you actually thought that would work out for you?”
Valentino takes a long drag from his cigarette. “I don’t know what I thought,” he mumbles. “But you’re not—why couldn’t you just let me win?”
“Win what?”
“I don’t know!” Valentino snaps, turning to face him. “I don’t know! I just wanted you to listen to me!”
Vox scoffs. “Yeah, because trying to punch my screen out was definitely going to get me to hear you out.”
Valentino is silent for a moment. “It works on everyone else,” he finally says.
Vox sighs. “I’m not everyone else, Val. You know that. I don’t like hurting you. I don’t like when you hurt me.”
Instead of replying, Valentino buries his face in his hands. He breathes out slowly, agitated squeaks giving away that he’s desperately trying to control his emotions.
“It was supposed to be different with you,” he finally says, so quietly Vox barely hears it. “It wasn’t supposed to end up like…like with everyone before you.”
Vox is silent.
He knows, of course, what Valentino did to survive before he managed to claw his way up into power. Before he was the type of man who would catch Vox’s attention; though honestly, even if they’d met before, Vox knows he would’ve been captivated anyway. But, as much as it pains him to admit, he doesn’t know everything. Valentino is an expert at dodging questions about his past, and Vox hasn’t pushed him. He gets it, kind of. He isn’t exactly thrilled to relive his early years in hell, either.
But whatever humiliation he endured before earning the fear and admiration of so many souls, he knows deep down that it doesn’t compare to whatever it is that happened to his partner. Sometimes, Valentino wakes up screaming. It’s just one more thing they never talk about.
Maybe they need to.
“It can be different,” Vox says, and Valentino looks up, expression hesitant. His eyeliner is smudged.
“It can be different if you want it to be,” Vox continues. “But I can’t fix…whatever this is unless you work with me.”
Valentino sighs, turning away to look out over the terrible city they call home again. “I can’t change, baby. I’m not going to change. That’s not who I am.”
“I’m not asking you to.” Vox joins Valentino at the railing of the balcony, taking one of Valentino’s lower hands in his own. His partner doesn’t flinch, and Vox feels relief wash over him—he never wants Valentino to be afraid of him again. “Just try to understand you don’t have to hurt me to feel like you’re still in control, or whatever. I don’t want us to be like that. You’re not some soul under contract. You’re not the competition, and I’m not going to treat you like that. We’re partners, Tino.”
Valentino doesn’t respond, but he squeezes Vox’s hand in his own, and that’s all the answer Vox needs to know they’ll be okay.
In the end, Valentino never says sorry. That’s fine. Vox never says it either. He’s not sure either of them are physically capable of it. They still hurt each other, sometimes. With words, with silence. Vox thinks they always will. But a silent understanding has passed between them, and that horrible night is the last time they ever lay hands on each other in anger. Valentino’s tantrums continue, of course, but when his rage becomes too much to hold inside him, the people he tears apart aren’t the ones who matter.
That’s enough for them.