"Y'know," Vox spoke up, circling the edge of his glass with his index finger. The cool surface of the glass contrasted sharply with his warm fingertips. He looked up at Alastor, his eyes daring, challenging Alastor across the expanse of the couch. The both of them were slouched comfortably, each holding a heavy crystal glass of amber rye that caught the dim light. A half full bottle stood sentinel on the polished coffee table between them, its label slightly obscured by condensation. They weren't beyond drunk, just tipsy enough for social niceties and carefully constructed barriers to start dissolving like sugar in their drinks.

He knew he was treading dangerous territory, knew he could ruin this fragile moment of truce with his invasive questions. But the alcohol had silenced his better judgment, made his tongue looser than it should ever be around Alastor. The warm buzz spreading through his system made the edges of his vision blur slightly, softening the sharp lines of the room. He just hoped their drinks had the same effect on Alastor as it did on him.

"What kind of stuff do you like in bed?" Vox asked boldly, his grin wide and flashing all his teeth. His voice held a cocky confidence that he didn't entirely feel. The question hung in the air, thick with implication, as the faint sound of distant nightclub music filtered through the walls. He knew he came off as perverted, probably because he was, but if all went wrong, he could always blame it on the alcohol. The seconds stretched into what felt like hours as he waited for Alastor's reaction.