The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
Valentino knows that quote from somewhere, lost to a lifetime of drugs and booze. He'd been super into poetry when he was young, so maybe it's that. Frost, he thinks. It sounds like Frost. Wherever it came from, it's a pretty apt description. He's in the middle of the woods, leaves sticking to his bare feet and ankles. There's the sound of screaming in the distance, a big cat on the hunt. He's not scared, though. Growing up in the boonies, he knows the bobcat is too far away to be hunting him.
Valentino stumbles over the uneven terrain, not sure where he's going, only that he needs to be moving. He doesn't remember leaving the house, but that's nothing new. He once did a few lines and wandered into LA traffic on a Friday night. It's only because of Vox yanking him into a town car that he didn't get struck and killed.
Whose woods these are I think I know, his house is in the village though—
It's definitely a poem, one his mama had told him in that sing-song tone she'd reserved for bedtime. He should start reciting for Velvette, make sure she's cultured and educated. She doesn't need to turn out like her parents, successful but ultimately enslaved to their vices. His baby deserves more than that, deserves the world.
He ducks beneath a branch that's one stiff breeze from falling and stops in front of the old radio tower. That house is still here, shadows crawling over the walls and along the threshold. Something about it sets Valentino on edge, phantom fingers along the back of his neck.
"What's so special about you, huh?" He gets no answer aside from the usual nighttime serenade. Is it cicadas that are humming in the trees? He used to collect their husks when he was a boy, set them ever so gently in his window sill in case a bug wandered by and wanted a new dress. His mama used to laugh softly and kiss his head and tell him he's a sweet boy.
He moves forward in spite of his reservations, stepping into the house with a glare to cover his nerves. Anger is a good shield when you're feeling small, an extra bit of protection against the world.
Between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year—
There's a faint humming drifting into the living room. Valentino follows it, pausing in the hallway. The bedroom door has been opened, just a crack, and more shadows swirl in that space like crawling things. A swarm of cicadas? No, it was locusts that the Bible warned of, wasn't it? He's never been religious.
The shadows writhe and the humming grows louder and louder until it transforms into a laugh as sharp as Alastor's carving knife. The shadows seem to ooze through the crack, building upon themselves until it settles on a vaguely humanoid shape.
"Have you been a good boy," the shadows ask. Their voice is dark and rasping, a pack-a-day voice. He can smell cheap cigarettes and booze and he knows those smells, is intimately familiar with them. He'd smelled them his entire childhood; the smell of failure, of depression and wicked anger, the smell of his father.
"You're not real."
"You've always had shitty eyesight, Santiago, but can you really not recognize me?" The creature holds out their arms, bits of shadow wisping off them at the motion. They fade quickly once they're separated from the body, fizzled out like cigarette ash. "C'mon, boy, don't tell me you're still that stupid."
"I'm not stupid." It's a childish whine and Valentino hates himself for reverting back to it. He clears his throat and straightens to his full height, a head taller than this imposter. "I might not be the smartest person, but I'm not stupid."
"Useless fuck."
"I made something of my life," Valentino shouts, taking a threatening step forward. "I'm fucking rich and I can take care of my baby! What can you say about your pathetic existence? Ni siquiera podías cuidar de tu familia! Al final ni siquiera podías permitirte esos cigarrillos de mierda!"
"Cuida tu tono!"
"Vete a la mierda!" He's reaching for his pistol when a hefty weight collides with his legs, nearly taking him out. He slams against the wall and barely manages to catch himself, one hand still blindly reaching for a gun that isn't in his waistband. "What the fuck—"
"Tino," a voice yells. "Tino, are you in here!" Vox skids into the hall a moment later, nearly tripping over the fucking dog. His hair's a mess, all sleep rumpled, and Valentino will gladly take that in once he kills his father. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Killing someone!" He turns but the creature has disappeared, the bedroom door firmly closed once more. He stomps forward and tries to shoulder the door open, but it's stuck firmly in the frame. It doesn't even creak when he throws his weight against it. "What the fuck!"
"Tino, stop!"
"No! He wants to fuck around, he's gonna find out! I'm not a little boy anymore! Come out here, you little bitch!" He rams his shoulder against it again, but then Vox has a hand twisted into the back of his tee and is hauling him away. It's only the genuine terror lighting up Vox's baby blues that gets Valentino to stop.
"Tino, did you see it?"
"My father—"
"Did you see any actual features?"
"No, but—"
"I didn't either." Valentino snaps his mouth shut, staring hard at Vox. He tries to think of when his boyfriend would have had a chance to see that thing, then remembers that stormy night almost a month ago. Vox standing in the corner of the basement, completely unresponsive. Valentino had to carry him back to the house, had gingerly cleaned him up and settled him in their bed. Is this what he'd seen? That horrible creature made of angry shadows?
"Voxxy…. Why didn't you tell me?"
"You wouldn't have believed me. I mean, I thought it was Angel once he finally revealed himself. I couldn't see anything but purple smoke, but he had that same smell and his voice— Jesus, Tino, it sounded just like him."
"There wasn't any purple smoke, just shadows." Valentino shakes his head like a dog that's been out in a storm. "It smelled like my father, it knew my name."
"It probably heard my calling you—"
"No, Vox, it knew my name." Vox's brows crinkle in confusion until it seems to click. The name Valentino doesn't use anymore, the one his drunk of a father had slurred after a bender or in the dark of the night when he needed a punching bag. Nobody's called him Santiago since he was sixteen. Vox only knows it because Valentino gets weepy on downers.
"But how?"
"Does it look like I fucking know?! I'm not even sure how I ended up in the fucking woods!" Vox looks at the bedroom door, leaning heavily into Valentino's side. "Let's just…." He lets out a low growl, teeth bared in a snarl as he fights down that simmering rage. "Let's get back to the house. I wanna hold my baby."
Vox supports him on the way out of the house, Vark hot on their heels. The dog sticks close to them on the walk back, weird since he normally likes to run ahead. He's a hunting dog at heart, an explorer, but it seems his protective instincts overrule that. He'd been the one to alert Valentino that Vox was missing that night, seemed to know exactly where to find him. Clearly Vark is the smartest one in the house. Valentino pauses just inside the backdoor, sparing one last glance over his shoulder. He tells Vox to head up and check on Velvette, waiting until his boyfriend is out of sight before he firmly bolts the door and shoves a chair beneath the knob. He stands there for a moment longer, just watching, that poem coming back to him.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.