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Vox was highly esteemed across all of hell, the face of the Vees and king of his own media empire. His words could charm millions, he was the height of luxury and power in hell.
What hell didn't know though, was that Vox was sick. And had been for decades.
The flowers started with Alastor.
Red as his hair, he didn't know where they came from since he was still getting used to hell and its… quirks. They were relatively benign, an occasional petal.
They turned black after that day, and it was a progressive illness.
It built up until he'd spend days pulling out the petals clogging his vents just to fucking breathe.
He'd tried everything, every medical professional in Pentagram city- paid off, threatened, or hypnotized to keep them quiet- All of them tried. Some new procedure, a new medicine, Vox let them try whatever just for a cure.
And then the petals would choke him to death anyway.
When he came back it was a relief, he forgot what breathing clearly was like, even if it was the muggy air of hell. And for a few days- a few weeks- even a few months- he was fine.
Then it happened all over again.
It created a trend in his media appearances. A small cough or two was fine, but he'd get increasingly camera shy just so no one would see him hacking out his lungs.
The cloying scent of roses stuck to him like rot to a corpse, it permeated his bedroom despite numerous deep cleanings- but all he got was compliments on his perfume. Petals and roses piled up on his bed sheets, Val said he found it romantic, but even the dried blood splattered on several of them couldn't dissuade him from that.
He'd taken it into his own hands a few times, tore out whatever in him passed for a respiratory system, digging out fistfuls of blooming flowers rooted in organ walls to find and uproot whatever the damn source was.
The blood always made him nostalgic for another time. Ruined only by black petals and an echoing laugh.
He found petals in his clothes and on his desk. Stalks would grow from his vents and wrap around his body, thorns and all, poking him under his shirt and leaving more damage when he ripped them out.
He'd be given roses on occasion, rarely real ones, mostly fake ones, rose paraphernalia, rose scented products, and he was so sick of that stupid fucking flower that he'd trash them. Maybe fire whoever made the delivery just to feel better.
What was worse was how he could feel it even when it didn't hurt. Petals fluttering with every intake of breath even when they were hardly obstructing it.
He laid in bed, coughing and sputtering. He tried wrenching out a rose, its stalk firmly nestled in the vents between his ribs. Its thorns caught the flesh of his palm and his strength was too weak. Each time a loud ragged cough wracked his body some petals would go loose, and he shifted uncomfortably to get them away from his vents.
It was ridiculous. This affliction. Years of the same old thing.
He coughed again, his lungs burned in agony.
As if something so trivial could keep him down. Could nerf his power.
The thorns tore at inner flesh, blood stained his sheets.
Fuck, he was more powerful than he'd ever been. He was more powerful than any other sinner in hell.
He tried to laugh, but it turned into a cough and then a hack and a sputter as he tried to breathe.
He didn't need a cure. He didn't need a goddamn cure, they'd see, they'd see.
Something gave, he pulled out a long strand of green stem covered in black roses, its roots bloodied with chunks of flesh.
They'd see, they'd see, Alastor would see.
He threw it away, carelessly. It was nothing. At least he thought he did.
He picked a flower from a garden.
It was a great big one, beautiful and more elegant than anything he'd ever seen in hell. Full of black roses that climbed up every wall. And it was all his.
He was being asked, in swathes of adoring light, how'd he do it? How'd he defeat the Radio Demon?
It was easy, he'd say. Their attention on every word.
He plucked a petal from the rose.
Alastor was under his command now, nothing more than a lowly thing staring up at his brilliance.
He plucked another petal.
Or was he staring? His head was turned away.
Look at me, he demanded.
Another petal. It felt wet.
How did you do it? Alastor asked. He was at one of the stage lights, holding it steady on Vox. Shy? Alastor said, after Vox tried to speak, but realized he couldn't. Well I suppose if anyone was up to the task, it would be you.
When he plucked another petal he looked down, the petals covered in deep crimson blood, but instead of metallic claws holding it there were human hands, his hands.
He looked up when he felt the light turn away.
Alastor was sat next to him at a bar, under the scent of flowers was a hint of alcohol.
He laughed in his face.
Oh, Vincent, Alastor mocked, and Vox tasted copper on his tongue. These fantasies of yours are getting so out of hand!
His laugh echoed around the set, flicking off every light one by one.
Vox reached out, hands around Alastor's throat became hands around nothing.
He collapsed, the darkness burned him from the inside out, suffocating him until even that feeling went away and the disease in his lungs snuffed the life out of him again.