You Always Hurt the Ones You Love

by Oddities_With_Curiosities

Summary:

Alastor continues his usual routine of slow and agonizing mornings when Angel is peculiarly awake earlier than usual.

Can Alastor grow into a better person? He is sure to deny it, yet, he also cant help but fear what he has become.

Chapter 1: Solitude

Just like every other antagonizing day in this damned hotel, Alastor finds himself regretting volunteering himself all those months, or has it been years, ago.

He grumbles, rolling over in his rather ragged and disheveled bed as an ear-raping chime rings by his bedside. The sun doesn't really rise or set here in hell, at least in the pride ring, so his draped window keeps it's consistent blood red glow. The walls, draped with vines and overgrown foliage, cause the wallpaper to bellow and wilt off the old wood and plaster walls. His bed covers are a maroon velvet. They obviously didn't come with the ‘free’ room, they are too booshy for a financially spiraling hotel like this, but in all truth it was probably found in a flea-market downtown by cannibal town.

The alarm continues to blare. Alastor swings his arm and smacks the vintage Big-ben clock onto the ground, simply adding more cracks to the already shattered glass of the clock-face. The chime fades to a rather pathetic death while Alastor forces himself to sit up. He fashions red sleepwear, the sort that gives the illusion of a suit, the sort you might see ‘Ebenezer Scrooge’ depicted in. Though, in all truth he wouldn't ever allow himself to be seen in a vulnerable state like this…

6:05am

The cafe of the hotel, featured near the main entrance through a doorway behind the bar, remains vacant. Though a few residents use the room for simplistic things like risky toaster usage or questionable storage in the cabinets, Alastor had found a coffee-machine and kettle-pot under the sink when the room was first rummaged through and since has used it to brew himself some morning black coffee. Alastor's taloned finger slips the coffee pot under the spout and tiredly flicks the switch to brew. With a novel under his arm, today is going to be just like every day, the longer he is alive, or rather- dead, the more repetitive everything feels. A stray strand of apple red hair hangs in the middle of his face, gracefully covering his rather obvious “x” marking on his forehead, a story he may never truly share with anyone at his own will. He sighs and runs his taloned hand up and through his hair in an attempt to fix or at least gently comb it out of his face, though the single cluster of hair seems persistent today. He moans a sigh as he watches the near boiling water dribble through the mesh and into the pot slowly turning a dark brown. He groans a mutter watching the slow trickle of hot water drip through the mesh turning a deep brown and eventually entering and filling the container. The tech in this building is truthfully falling apart and it's rather obvious, especially given that the foggy smoke emitted from the coffee machine is starting to fog Alastor's monocle. With impatience Alastor pulls out the pot allowing the rest to drip out into the tray. He tilts the container forward, aligning his pointer finger along the handle, aiming into a white coffee cup with a missing chip on the edge. Leaving behind half of the container on the slightly dusty counter. With all the drama the hotel has been getting recently, dust has been falling from all the ceilings on all the furniture, naturally as expected.

He meanders towards the main lobby to seat himself. As he walks he tucks his buttoned up shirt properly and casually reaches into his pocket to check the time. He sits down with a rather amusing plop, clicking open his pocketwatch, it's almost 6:20am, its not likely that anyone will be awake any time soon; he sighs silently, setting down his still rather hot beverage on the coffee table and crosses one leg over the other, finally taking the novel out from under his arm. Flipping through a few pages, he finally settles and relaxes into his seat. The gentle crackle of his radio-static ambiance rises to a noticeable volume, filling the silence as he reads. Though, as comfortable and content he feels, he slowly raises his head with an annoyed deadpan glare, ears twitching to the left as loud heels echo through the main hall.

“Yes- Yes! Whatever you say, Val… no- no! No I'm not at the hotel- you'll what, hey that's not what we agreed?” Angel walks through the entry-way dressed rather frantically. One hand is holding his pink-webbed phone up against the side of his head, another arm holding his very sleepy Fat Nuggets against his side and forearm, and his lower two appendages frantically writing notes on a notepad.

“Val- Val? Boss? That fucker hung up on me.” Angel announces loudly as he pulls the phone away from his head and to his face, temporarily oblivious of Alastor's presence even with his dagger filled glare.

With the subtle clearing of his throat Alastor speaks up, “... Why are you here?” he bookmarks his page with a finger while never moving his annoyed stare from Angel. It's like Angel's presence causes physical discomfort and rage within him.

“Oh shit- Hey Al~” Angel's eyes widen with an almost fear-like shock before quickly switching to a more flirtatious ‘Angel dust’ like look. What was that about-? Alastor couldn't care less. Angel closes his notepad with one hand and switches over his phone and pen all to that appendage before casually and flirtatiously combing his hair back with his fingers. If it wasn't such a social and political warcrime, Alastor would call the damned spider a slur, though he doesn't need any of the other more relevant occupants to become offended. Truthfully just Charlie and Vaggie, they are the only two who have any real power over him, at least socially… and theoretically.

“Normally no one is awake before 10am…” Alastor states rather matter-of-fact like, keeping his fake smile permanently stuck on his face even while his attitude is enough evidence to prove it's a ruse.

“Pff-! Nah, just- Valentino needs me in a little early today, we apparently have a ‘special guest’” He air quotes, “its nothing special~ though… I shouldn't be the one being interrogated here.~” Angel walks towards the lounging area, swaying his hips with amusement. "What' s the little ol' doe doing up so early?”

Alastor's lip curls as Angel grows closer and he involuntarily pulls his outstretched crossed legs up closer to his seat on the sofa, “I'm always up this early. I don't normally sleep for more than 4 hours.” He gently slips his finger out of the book and lays it on his lap, fully aware he most likely won't be getting any more reading until Angel leaves; Plus, it's not like he got very far in.

“Ouuh! Whatcha’ reading?” Angel reaches over to Alastor with grabby hands and swipes the novel from him, causing Alastor to pounce up from his seat, “Angel! Bastard-”

“What is this~ smut hmmm? Does the little ol fun repulsed Alastor actually have some personality? Hmmm~?” Angel flips through a few pages even though he isn't really reading anything he sees, more just teasing to get a reaction.

Alastor with an annoyed scowl yanks the book back, “No, you arse. It's nothing of your concern!”

Angel playfully shoves Alastor, yet with a slight stumble, one of his red tipped shoes remains slightly under the sofa ridge leading to him losing his balance and toppling backwards. He attempts to grab for the glass topped coffee table on his quick descent down but with the poor fastening, the glass top layer lifts off of the two farthest corners and his coffee cup slides down with him.

A loud ringing rattles in the room as Alastor's head and upper back hit the floor. While he is now splayed on the ground in between the sofa and table, Alastor's novel slides off the carpet and onto the wood flooring face-up.

“Lady… Chatterly? What sort of book…” Angel mutters while leaning forward to catch a glimpse of the title. His first thought is ‘that sounds old as hell’, his second being ‘that sounds boring as hell.’

Alastor groans a moan, slowly maneuvering his arm and hand up to his head. He mutters a few angry names towards Angel dust but in all truth, even if Angel wanted to hear them, his ears are starting to ring a little from that initial screech. With tucked ears and a very disheveled appearance, Alastor pushes himself up off of his back, eyes slowly opening. His ‘precious' attire now is not only likely wrinkled but also covered in warm black coffee…

Angel slowly covers his mouth with two hands, he doesn't know if he should burst out laughing or run for his life, and unfortunately no matter what he does Alastor is going to kill him. Unfortunately, he isn't given much time to really choose as a quiet snicker slips through his cupped fingers. Alastor's eyes glare up towards Angel's, analyzing his face and calculating his next move. In reality he's just deeply annoyed that not only was his ‘personal time’ invaded, but he also lost his brew, and now needs to make a trip to the dry cleaners.

“Just… Angel, just go.” Al tiredly pushes his body into a more sitting position and manages to find his will to stand up. As he does so, he reveals a humorous partial outline of coffee on the carpet, which he now has to clean or else Lucifer might just kill him.

“I uh- pff- shit yeah, I gotta go.” Angel's giggles escape as he steps back and eventually runs off to his room to drop off Fat Nuggets who has been tired and uncaring. Luckily for Nuggets, if he wasn't always so well trained and lucky, Alastor might have just eaten him by now.

Alastor gently takes off his red Monocle, noticing the chain is conveniently broken. It must have gotten caught in his hair and already weakened enough to break, especially with just a little bit of force. Alastor inhales deeply and whimpers a defeated sigh. His ears tilt back slightly in distress but he forces himself on, shoving the lens in his pocket and slowly picking up his belongings. With the snap of his pointer and his thumb a short green glow flourishes by the spill.

“Niffty, if you wouldn't mind, would you be a doll and clean that up while I'm gone?” Alastor waves his wrist as he trucks off to the hall for his hotel room.

“Right on it boss!” She joyfully accepts as he disappears into the poorly lit hallway.

Chapter 2: Friends

Summary:

Alastor finds himself desperate for any sort of stimulation and entertainment, finding himself 'hanging' around Angel Dust. Acknowledging his rather Psychopathic tendencies, he silently studies how people around him act and react especially in relationships of many sorts.

Alastor's talons grip the porcelain sink counter, enough to force tension in his tendons. He stares at his reflection with a numb expression, eyes jaded and half lidded. He slowly reaches for his suit buttons, undoing each one with gentle but tired accuracy. Slipping his arms through the sleeves and folding it over the counter drawer. He returns his gaze to his reflection, acknowledging how the stain slipped through his suit to his buttoned up undershirt. Alastor cups his face into his hands, gripping the frays of his hair in between his talons causing a few to slip out of his scalp. He has never really liked the straight hair he's been forced to endure during his time here in hell, but unfortunately he has been dead much, much longer than alive. Most of his life is a fever dream of horrendous memories and poor choices once he thinks back at it.

Al returns to undressing, finding the sensation of moist fabric rather overstimulating in the moment and hard to express. Gently folding each piece of clothing over the next, each ‘fold’ becomes messier and more half hearted. His trousers being the final piece and simply tossed on top without real care.

He doesn't even acknowledge himself in the general direction of the mirror before dragging himself into the washroom. He doesn't quite remember washing off, only returning back to reality while standing in the doorway of his pathetic excuse of a hotel closet. There isn't much of a selection. Alastor slowly reaches for a new set of plain black suit pants, a black collared button up and a red vest. Checking the tag on his vest he squints and reaches towards his face for his Monocle only to remember his predicament. With a huff he turns to the drawers and storage spots in his room, shuffling through each area for reading glasses of any sort, and luckily he does find a convenient pair: simplistic rectangle lenses with a black metal nose rest. It's not his usual but before he is able to fix himself up, it will have to do. With the snap of his fingers, his stained clothes disappear with a green flash. Out of sight, out of mind, he will take a walk later on to pick them up.

Alastor walks out of his room, awkwardly fixing and pulling down his red vest after every few movements. He fumbles his clothes and sleeves, gently pushing up his glasses every few moments. Being out of his usual rhythm is causing him to feel more erratic and irritated, like every breath is causing his clothing to roll out of place or every sudden movement feels as if his persona is wilting, and it enrages him, though he isn't sure why he feels this way. Slowly returning to the lobby, he spots Nifty's efficiency, it's almost like the carpet never had that atrocious stain. He grips his hair into a fistful of fluff, chasing the sensation of pain, the sort that feels almost calming, though if anything his attempts are just making him feel more messy and out of place. Oh how he hates inconsistencies. If that damn spider had just left him alone-

“Shit, hey Al… I have a silly question~”

Alastor can physically feel the muscles in his face twinge and twitch from that damn voice, “Angel…”

Alastor slowly turns himself around in the hallway, struggling to keep any ounce of ‘I don't give a shit’ off of his face.

“Hey Smiles, I was wondering if you could help me get a ride to my work, you are like- low key the only person awake and even though I would usually just pay to request a vehicle, my phone is glitching… you look like you would have a car.” Angel smiles cheekily, silently praying that he can get this out of Alastor even though the demon is likely still enraged by him.

Alastor stares, or rather glares through half lidded eyes, “I use the public transportation.”

Angel's plans are shattered, “oh… well then I-”

But before he can finish, a truly wonderful idea comes to mind, how entertaining it would be to find something outside of his usual daily path. Alastor interrupts Angel, “Where is it in town? Your- eh… place of work. If it's not too awfully far I suppose I could use my bus pass to get you there.”

“...wait- you would really do that? Aren't you still mad at me from-” Angel is beyond shocked, but once more Alastor cuts him off.

“Shh- shut it. Don't think about it too hard… I'm not doing this for you…” He grumbles, pulling out his pocket watch and checking the time, doing a little bit of mental math. Angel watches the Radio Demon curiously, somewhat admiring the flattering change in attire, snickering once he spots the glasses.

“I like your glasses, grandma~” he can't help but poke fun, his observations quiet down though when he is met with a terrifying sideways glare.

Alastor hesitates his generosity but continues nonetheless,"We need to walk to Brimstone Boulevard and Pride Parkway within the next 15 minutes if you want to make it on the next bus.”

Angel giggles with joy and jumps towards Alastor. He flinches back slightly, preparing to defend himself, but is instead forced into a tight and rather uncomfortable hug. Angel smells of hairspray and cheap effeminate perfume.

“Angel…” his voice is muffled, “Angel! If you want to go we have to head out now.”

“Oh yes yes! Of course” the spider demon releases his tight embrace and grabs for his small purse and phone while Alastor subtly tries to catch his breath without catching Angel's attention. It's not even that Angel's grip was hefty, or that the overwhelming smell of product was restricting his airflow, but it's like Alastor's lungs simply weren't accepting oxygen in the embrace. Alastor shakes his head and finds himself shifting up his glasses once more with a talon as he steps towards the hotel main doors. His chest tightens, disconcerted by his willingness to be around the other demon- finding it odd of himself.

Walking briskly Alastor travels down the sidewalk of Pride Parkway within his arms comfortably tucked behind his back with Angel following behind in suit. The crackling agitation of Alastor's ambiance peaks around every 10 seconds, around the same time Angel checks his phone for the time - again and again. He can't help but look for things about the other man that triggers him, though outside of that spectrum, the way Angel so gracefully puts aside most social norms Alastor himself is so a-keen to intrigues him. Alastor would never admit it aloud especially to Angel, but the quirks that are so asymmetric to his own are rather humorous and entertaining to see. The way Angel remains so flowy and always graceful in a sense while Alastor keeps himself efficiently rigid unless necessary. He can't help but find a pride within him that is loathing of those bits of Angel, the confidence with a large fan base to back it up, Alastor was once at that standard. Switching out of his daydreaming trance, he almost misses the bus stop.

“Here. It should be here in nothing flat.” Alastor informs Angel who only returns a judgemental eyebrow raise.

“Nothing flat? Wow, you really do have that stupid old-timey slang in yah’- HAH! If you didn't have powers no one would take you seriously!” Angel pokes.

Alastor grits his teeth, avoiding any eye contact, “That’s enough out of you.” He speaks, his pride feeling tested and cornered. Luckily enough the public transport arrived just on time and Al is quick to get on. Angel snickers and pushes himself up with the assisting handlebar by the door, following Al inside to the unfortunately rather crowded environment. Even with the setting, Alastor expresses no anxiety, no awkwardness, no deference. He doesn't feel the need to say “excuse me” or apologize if he bumps into someone. If they glare, he meets their eyes until they look away. They always do. He scans the car automatically. Not for a seat…there are plenty…but for people. Who’s weak? Who’s trying too hard to look strong? Alastor clocks the woman clutching her purse too tightly, the guy reading a self-help book, the young Imp teenager trying not to make eye contact. Patterns. They're all patterns. He doesn't care about them, not really, but understanding them gives him an edge.

The man across from where he stands keeps shifting uncomfortably, glancing around. Maybe he’s hiding something, maybe he’s just anxious. Alastor could play with that. A look, a smirk, a whisper when no one else can hear. It would be easy. Fun, even. But not now. He's truthfully not in the mood.There’s a plausible couple laughing near the back. Something about them irritates him. The noise? The fakeness? Maybe it’s just the way they touch, like they believe in something he knows isn’t real. Love. Trust. Whatever it may be. Alastor could tear that apart if he wanted to. But again, timing.

He stands near the middle with Angel, where he can see everyone. He doesn’t fidget. Doesn’t avoid eye contact. If anything, his gaze lingers a moment too long, just enough to make people uneasy. It’s not accidental.There’s a sharpness to him that most people won’t consciously register, but they'll feel it. Like a wolf in a suit: too still, too aware, too detached. People are predictable, and predictable means controllable. Alastor likes knowing that.

“Smiles… hey! Smiles! This is my stop…” Alastor's eyes refocus from the sudden waving of a hand near his face, the voice only just registering and his ears shifting away from the deafening static that was once bouncing in his head.

“Yes, of course.” He exhales a silent sigh, did he breathe during that entire drive- how long were they even in the vehicle? He couldn't truthfully answer either of those questions, but moving past, he follows Angel out and off the bus stepping back onto solid concrete and asphalt.

“Well this is convenient~ the Vee's tower is right next to this stop!” Angel laughs

Alastor, does not find this amusing, “your place of work is in the Vees tower…? And you didn't think to mention that SPECIFIC part?”

“Whoa~ whoa~ nah I just work in a building connected to the Vees, I just gave you the address…”

Alastor's eyes narrow with distaste, “Well than… I suppose I will wander or find my way back to the hotel now then…”

Angel gasps, “No honey~ come on… at least come inside and get some- what is it… ah! ‘Giggle juice’ pff BwhahaHA! Seriously though… I have connections. I can get you in free~!”

Al keeps his glare but when all is said and done, they are all adults and there's no reason he must deny the offer, “Fine, but I will leave on my own terms at my own leisure.” He readjusts his vest by tugging it down.

“Yes! Oh I'm so excited to show you around!” Angel giggles with joy, grabbing the sleeve of Alastor's arm with two limbs.

Alastor tenses, slightly off put by the unwelcome physical touch Angel seems to be quickly growing comfortable with.

As the door to the strip club swung open, the dim, pulsating lights flickered across the room, casting sharp shadows. The air was thick with a blend of stale alcohol and cheap cologne. The music, a thumping bass that seemed to vibrate through the chest, was drowned out only by the loud chatter and clinking glasses of the few patrons scattered across the room.

The neon lights of the strip club bled in streaks of crimson and violet across his face, painting a distorted image of his cold, unreadable faux smile expression. He was a figure out of place in a world so full of raw, visceral displays of humanity. In his mind, there was no sin in this environment. No indulgence. It was simply... noise, too much noise.

The dancers, as they moved, seemed like figures caught in some eternal dance, detached from the world outside. He watched, not with lust, but with an artist’s eye and possibly minor judgement, dissecting their movements as if each shift of their bodies was part of some grand, incomprehensible design. To him, they were not men and women. They were mere symbols. The music, the lights, the laughter, they were all part of a performance he’d seen countless times before. It was like art, but without the touch of emotion that usually accompanies it. In a way he sort of likes that unusual combination.

Angel drags him farther in by the arm, “Damn smiles, you can't just stand in the doorway~ come! I want to show you around!”

It wasn’t that he was unaffected. Rather, he was beyond the affect, above it. In a space where others might feel discomfort, arousal, or even a sense of belonging, he floated above it all, a deep sense that he didn't quite fit in which aroused a curious interest in him. The vibrations from the bass bounced in his chest. It's so awfully loud in here. His mind dissected the chaos like a surgeon, calm and dispassionate.

Alastor follows Angel through tediously placed tables and chairs. Angel unclips a velvet padded border rope, welcoming Alastor to the restricted back area. He hesitates silently but can't help but be curious, and slightly anxious to get away from the speakers. He can feel his head and stomach start to throb. Alastor and Angel enter through a somewhat hidden door to the backstage by the floor level.

With an unsolicited shove from Angel, Alastor is pushed through the swinging doors into a suddenly blaring yellow lit room. Alastor’s eyes squint from the sudden change in brightness and power. After a moment of refocusing he quickly analyzes the new environment. Mirrors line the connecting wall with vanity bulbs around lighting up the mirrors. The lighting is practical for applying makeup or adjusting costumes, though it feels a bit clinical and unforgiving. Scattered around the space are mismatched chairs, stools, and faded couches, some leaning precariously, others draped with clothes or forgotten accessories. A few performers sit, hunched over in concentration as they laced up shoes or adjusted their rather lewd and revealing outfits. Nearby, hooks and racks overflowed with costumes, sequins, leather, feathers and lace. Each outfit is a small work of art in itself, tailored to fit a persona, a role to be played on stage. Some costumes were discarded in a rush, hanging awkwardly, while others were meticulously folded.

Angel smiles, putting two hands on his waist before turning his gaze to check for Alastor's reaction. Alastor's lip is slightly curled with confliction as he takes in the place. It's not really that nice in any sort of way. In fact, the room looks rather pathetic. Even though in all his life and death he had never been in an environment or situation quite like this one, he thought there would be more interesting stories to see.

“What? Not all you imagined~?” Angel chuckles. With that he trucks forward towards the preparation tables, particularly a more decorated one, one with small Polaroids and trinkets. Alastor follows curiously, eyes opening wider with intrigue. Angel rattles on about his place of work and preparation area, but Alastor grows more focused on the details of the desk rather than any nonsense Angel may be speaking about. He uncharacteristically reaches for a propped up frame that sits against the mirror, lifting it up to take a closer look.

The framed Polaroid shows Angel, of course, and a rather curious looking slim and white-skinned cyclops demon. Her singular eye featuring an X-shaped light yellow pupil and a sunkist peach tinted sclera is turned towards Angel Dust. Her visible pale skin is kissed with brownish freckles from her shoulders and below. The unnamed woman shows long strawberry blonde-pink hair with platinum blonde accents, kept in a high half ponytail draped on her shoulder. Both Angel and the younger appearing sinner are shot with a soft fabric background, like a bed of sorts, which is quickly backed up by their rather amusing and childlike sleepwear.

Angel notices Alastor's curious examination, “Oh. Yeah, that's me and Cherri, she's practically my right hand gal’. My best friend.”

Friends? Best friends? Alastor can't help but think with amusement. Sure, these terms come up all the time. People talk about loyalty, trust, bonding, ‘all that emotional stuff’. But what’s really happening here? The idea of having a 'best friend' seems... unnecessary. There's no need for 'true connection.' The concept of deep emotional loyalty? It's just a convenient tool. ‘I don't need a friend to survive. I don’t need their love or loyalty. What I need is control.’

When others spoke of friends, of deep bonds or emotional closeness, Alastor was somewhat detached. He knew what the words meant in a social context, but he didn’t feel the need to form such attachments himself. Friendship, as most understood it, was unnecessary. He was capable of existing without needing the affection or loyalty of others. Instead, Alastor saw friendships as something to be carefully curated, not felt. To him, people were assets, not companions. If someone wanted to be his friend, it was simple: he would mirror whatever they desired. He could easily adapt to their expectations, saying the right things, showing the right gestures, and offering the right kind of attention at the right time. He didn’t feel the same way they did, but he knew exactly how to appear as though he did. It wasn’t real, but it didn’t need to be. It was a game, one where he could play with the rules to his advantage. His detachment gave him a clear view of others’ emotions, but he felt no compulsion to share in them. There was no guilt, no attachment, only strategy.

He has friends, surely… Rosie and Charlie suffice as his current fixations, though one of those is a bit more tedious he must admit.

When it came to the concept of "best friends," Alastor viewed it as a tier of social status, something to be manipulated. People who called him their best friend were those who trusted him deeply, trusted him in ways that were foreign to him. But in his mind, that trust was just another way to gain power. The more vulnerable a person became, the more they opened up to him, the more access they gave him. To him, the title of "best friend" was an opportunity, a chance to leverage that trust for his benefit. He wasn’t interested in reciprocating the same emotional depth. Instead, he saw it as a means to an end, a form of control over someone who had, in essence, given him their loyalty, however misguided that loyalty might be.

If the friendship ever became a burden to him, whatever the case, or if it no longer served him, he could easily disengage. Alastor would simply walk away, or turn on them entirely, and they would never see it coming. It was an easy maneuver for him; after all, there is no stake in the relationship. People were predictable in their attachments, and that predictability was something he understood and could use to his advantage.

“Best friend...” Alastor mutters with amusement.

“Yeah, you get it,” Angel smiles, nudging the Radio Demon.

Notes:

AAAA I did it, 2nd chapter babyy

Expect more to come of course~ I'd love to see how Alastor begins to grow and change as we progress ;D

Chapter 3: Sleep

Summary:

Alastor's silent solitude grows too confusing, too conflicting...

Alastor sits in silent solitude in the enclosure of his room. Comfortably tucked in his sheets though sat up slightly, he stares ahead in quiet contemplation. The ‘Big Ben’ clock to his side strikes 2:00am as quiet static fills the room. Alastor can't help but replay the day, though it wasn't too active or thrilling, it was curiously entertaining. There's even for once a few things he is left to think about: the way Angel struts, the way they spider demon is touchy and rather affectionate when excited, Cherri Bomb - or rather known as the effeminate man's friend.

A dark shadow fades from the wall to the flooring before rising to a smoke like form. A mirrored resemblance to Alastor, a smokey silhouette of the man.

“What? Am I no longer permitted to ‘daydream’?” Alastor's eyes glare towards the figure looking down at him. It cocks it’s head curiously.

“No. It's not like that, and you know that- what a stupid and idiotic thought.” Alastor huffs, shutting his eyes in a sort of pout of annoyance. The shadow shakes its head, turning its form away from Alastor and slowly meandering back into the shadows of the room.

“It's not like that.” He mutters quieter like a personal reassurance.

He notices it first in the silence, with his usual static filled mind, in the moment he hears true silence.

Not the kind of silence that grates, the kind he's used to manipulating, filling, weaponizing, but a silence that feels comfortable. There's quiet creaking from the shifting of the building and the wood tiles. The quiet scatter of life, wanted and unwanted within the hotel. There's trickling in the pipes by his bedside within the walls. Easy- and it makes no sense. Angel is still just another person, and an annoying one at that. Another variable to manage. Another moving part in the machine. So why hasn’t he pulled away yet?

It’s not fondness. He doesn’t do ‘fondness.’

That's what he tells himself.

Someone like him doesn’t form attachments. Not real ones. He sees the world differently and he is aware of it: cold, efficient, untouched by the tethers that tie weaker minds together. The momentary pull in his chest when the pink haired man laughs, or when he looks at him without suspicion, it's nothing. Biological noise. A glitch.

People like him don't feel things, his head rings.

It sounds convincing. It always has before.

But the lie is starting to itch.

He starts to find himself desiring to do another outing or conversation, asking the spider for a situation just to hear and see his reply, remembering small things, holding back a sharp word that Alastor wanted to say with the internalized fear that it wouldn't be wise. But, because he doesn't want to him her. He didn't want to hurt him.

That’s the problem.

He begins to rationalize. Maybe it’s just a phase. A curiosity. A control tactic gone too far without proper precautions and calculation. It doesn’t mean anything..

But his self-image is cracking. There’s something about that man, Angel, that lingers, that presses against the hollow place he’s spent years pretending wasn’t there.

And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, he isn’t sure if he’s the one playing the game anymore.

Notes:

Spitting these chapters out like Lin-Manuel Miranda

Chapter 4: Assist

Summary:

Alastor realizes his forgetfulness over his attire and also desides to assist Angel and offer future assistance if needed, now why would he do that?

Alastor jolted awake, a strangled gasp tearing from his throat. The room is a rough red hue strangled by the buzzing of his clock. His chest heaves, lungs dragging in air as though he'd been drowning moments before. Sweat clung to his skin in a clammy sheen also causing his sleepwear and hair to stick to him slightly.

His wide eyes darted around the room, unfocused, searching for something, anything to anchor him. But nothing felt real in the moment. The shadows in the corners of the room loomed too tall, too still. The alarm kept chirping. Shrill. Unrelenting. Like a countdown to something he couldn’t name.

His hands gripped the bed sheets, fists clenched so tightly his knuckles turned bone-white, clutching the worn cloth like a lifeline, as if letting go might somehow harm him. A chill lingered on the back of his neck, threading down his spine like icewater. His heart refused to slow, hammering wildly in his chest as if trying to escape.

Another chirp. Then another. He slammed a trembling hand against the alarm clock, silencing it at last, but the silence that followed was heavier somehow, dense and oppressive. As though the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for something else to happen.

Alastor sat there, hunched in the dark, sheet still gripped tight in his fists, breath shallow and eyes wide. He didn't know what he was afraid of, still lingering effects from his first heart palpitation.

Alastor takes a slow deep breath, turning himself gently to check the time, 6:00am. He sighs quietly as if seeing the time gave him a sense of relief, he falls back into his pillows, staring at the ceiling.

“I'm okay.” He sighs breathlessly, shutting his eyes. Though, after a few seconds they open up quickly and he rushes to sit up, “The dry cleaners-” how did he completely forget?

Then a moment passes. His jaw tightens. The error isn't his - no, the world shifted, the variables changed, someone else failed and caused him to forget. Sabotage, incompetence, irrelevant noise interfering with his signal. He doesn't forget.

A cruel smile curls at the edge of his mouth. "Interesting," he murmurs, as if it's an experiment gone off-script rather than a lapse in his perfect recall.

Alastor hesitantly pushes himself out of his bed and is quick to grab whatever he can reach to dress himself as soon as possible. A simple dark red button up, black trousers and suspenders, casual enough.

Without more contemplation he rushes out of the hotel, not even caring enough to find himself food or a beverage, simply determined to to prove the ‘world’ wrong, in his own sort of way.

7:30

Folded clothing over one arm, Alastor grabs the front door's handle, pulling it open, returning after an awfully distressing trip. Not due to any particular event that occurred, but the meer thought stuck in his mind, ‘how did I forget, how could I forget, I never forget.’ Surely from an outside perspective, it's just a mere slip up, its human after all, but to him its a sign that he became weak. He let his guard down, he wasn't as analytical, as logical, as inquisitive as he usually is in his own personal office of a mind.

Stepping into the lobby he notices a rather disconcerted Angel dust sitting on one of the couches. Curiously, Alastor quietly shuts the door in an attempt to be stealthy. Unfortunately, Angel notices and turns his head. At first glance, Angel seems to be in distress. He sits quietly, slightly hunched, with his gaze fixed on the ground. Angel's posture is tense, as if holding something in pain, fear, or maybe just exhaustion. One hand grips the edge of his seat, the other rests limply in his lap. Their eyes look distant, unfocused, as if they're somewhere else entirely. Even if it's only for a moment, Alastor notices the small signs that something isn't right, even though no words are spoken.

Before Alastor can properly react, Angel's entire demeanor changes, “Oh, hello Alastor~” his body rests into the sofa and he loosens his grip on the armrest to wriggle his fingers at Alastor. Angel outstretches his legs and lower body to accentuate his figure, lewdly of course. Alastor pays no real mind to it, more rather why Angel seemed so distressed before and now is putting up a facade of ‘normalcy’, at least for Angel. Alastor doesn't particularly like when people lie or keep secrets, especially if he can tell, in which he can always tell.

Alastor doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he watches Angel with the detached curiosity of a scientist observing a strange insect twitching under a glass. The greeting from Angel, though outwardly flirtatious, has a tremble in its edges. A few milliseconds too slow. A hesitation in the eyes.

He walks further into the room, the click of his shoes echoing against the polished floor. "Good evening, Angel," Alastor says, voice smooth, pleasant and disarmingly so. "You seem... off today. Not your usual sprightly self. Dare I ask: did something... unpleasant occur at work?"

He doesn’t sit. He never sits when his mind is this active, this curious. Instead, he stands a few feet from the couch, his eyes trained on Angel like he’s parsing a particularly troublesome equation.

Angel’s smile twitches. “You mean besides getting my ass grabbed by a dozen drunken demons and almost falling off the pole because of the floor being slick with someone’s spilled sin-vomit? Nah, just another glamorous night in Hell.”

The laugh that follows is hollow, but Angel plays it up with a lazy stretch, his back arching slightly, just enough to distract, misdirect. But Alastor doesn’t take the bait. He tilts his head.

“Hmm. Curious,” he says softly. “Pain in your posture. A favoring of the left side. Microexpressions during your greeting indicate discomfort, possibly in the ribcage or lower back. A dulling of the eyes, likely due to either injury or... chemical fatigue?”

Angel’s playful facade cracks, just for a second his eyes narrow, his mouth tightens. “You’ running diagnostics on me now, ‘Doctor Alastor?’”

Alastor’s grin never falters. “Perhaps. But only because you’re being such a terrible liar, dear. I expected a better performance.”

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more sincere, though he’s not sure he understands why. “If something is wrong... I would prefer you simply say so. Theatrics are only charming when they aren't hiding something.”

Angel averts his gaze for the first time. The silence stretches, taut and uncomfortable. Then, just above a whisper:

“I'm fine.”

The words hang there, vulnerable and raw.

And suddenly, Alastor feels a strange pang in his chest. A tightness. Not anger. Not amusement. Something... inconvenient. He doesn’t like that feeling. “I don't like it when people lie…”

Why does he suddenly feel this way? Surely he doesn’t actually care for this man, after all this is the last person he should trust with anything, even over Vaggie. Possibly that's why he feels attracted to him, not in a romantic sort of way but rather a scientific way, or dare he say, platonic way.

“May I come closer?” Alastor internally smacks himself, why would he ask such a stupid question. But, either way Angel hesitates and with a shaky breath:

“Yeah…”

The words linger in the air between them, an uncomfortable silence that feels as though it could stretch into eternity. Alastor’s sharp eyes linger on Angel’s averted gaze, trying to make sense of the emotion that flickers there, something fragile, something that doesn’t fit into his neat little boxes of calculations and analysis. He’d like to say he’s puzzled, but that’s too kind. It’s something more like disturbed.

Slowly moving closer, he shifts his stance, his posture still as stiff as a poker game. A moment of indecision sweeps over him, a subtle ripple in his otherwise unshakable confidence.

“I... see,” he begins, his voice still steady, but now with a slightly softer edge, almost like he’s trying on the unfamiliar tone and finding it... ill-fitting. “It is understandable, I suppose. Vulnerability has a way of feeling unpleasant, does it not? To reveal weakness to others… it can be… a challenge.”

He pauses, his eyes flicking down briefly, perhaps out of a misplaced sense of trying to empathize. “Not that I’m familiar with such... notions of weakness. But I can imagine it must be... frustrating.” His smile twitches into something uncertain. “Not knowing how to process… what you feel.”

Angel, still not looking at him, lets out a slow exhale. “It’s not that simple, Alastor,” he mutters, his voice thick with something Alastor isn’t entirely sure he understands. “I don't need anyone, especially you, telling me about how to feel. I'm not a wind up toy that's always happily in character. Things happen to me that are none of your concern!”

There’s a pause, a beat where Alastor wonders if his next words will sound as ridiculous as they feel.

“Well, that’s where you’re wrong,” he says, attempting a gentle tone, though the words feel like a heavy burden in his chest. “You’re not a toy... you’re… much more complicated than that.”

The silence thickens, but Alastor pushes forward. His hands twitch, as if unsure whether to offer comfort or pull back entirely. “If you wish to be left alone, I will respect that. But… if you need assistance, or… anything really… you should know that I’m perfectly capable of providing care. In... my own way, of course.”

He almost sounds like he's trying to convince himself of this as much as he's trying to convince Angel. Truthfully, he doesn't quite know why he hasn't just left yet. He clears his throat. “I can’t offer you the typical forms of comfort you might receive elsewhere. However…” He taps his talons against his folded up clothing,“Perhaps we can strike a compromise? I will assist you in whatever way I can, within my … skill set. We could begin by ensuring you’re not seriously injured, of course.”

Alastor’s free hand twitches, and this time he reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a small silver flask. It gleams coldly in the dim light of the lobby.

“Now, I’m aware that most people would offer a bandage, or perhaps a kind word of reassurance. But since those are entirely out of my grasp… I’m offering you this." He holds it out with a delicate precision. "A… herbal remedy, a tea syrup if you will. It’s for the pain. It’s not an ideal solution, but I find it effective in situations where one might be unable to relax due to physical discomfort.”

It’s a completely bizarre and impractical gesture, especially considering the situation. But, in that moment, it’s the only form of “help” Alastor knows how to offer.

Angel stares at the flask for a moment, then glances up at Alastor. The facade of indifference falters slightly, revealing a flicker of something. Maybe gratitude? Or maybe just confusion. Either way, it’s something Alastor doesn’t know how to read.

"Well, ain't you just full of surprises," Angel mutters, cracking a tiny, almost pained smile. "Alright, Doc. I'll bite. But if you expect me to be all sentimental and thankful for your… whatever this is, you're outta your mind."

Alastor’s smile sharpens, his pride poking through the awkwardness. "I never expected sentimentality, my dear Angel. That’s an emotional maze I certainly avoid. But, if you insist on some form of gratitude, a simple acknowledgement of my expertise will suffice."

Angel takes the flask reluctantly, then tips his head back to drink from it with an exaggerated flourish. He gives Alastor an exaggerated wink as he swallows, his bravado slipping back into place, but not entirely masking the deep exhaustion that still tugs at the edges of his features. "You're weird, Alastor," he mutters under his breath. "But… maybe that’s not the worst thing."

Alastor watches him closely, his expression unreadable. "I’ll take that as a compliment." But his tone softens ever so slightly as he adds, "Just remember, Angel... if you ever need someone to assist you with anything... do not hesitate to call on me. Even if it’s something as simple as offering a listening ear."

For a brief moment, Angel stares at him, something unreadable in his eyes. Then, with a sharp breath, he huffs. "Yeah, well... don't go getting all mushy on me, alright? I’m fine."

Alastor gives a small, satisfied nod. "Of course. I’ll refrain from any excessive displays of empathy."

As he turns to leave, however, there’s a slight weight in his chest that wasn’t there before. It’s not exactly regret, but... an odd sense of fulfillment and shaky adrenaline. Something new. Something human. Alastor unfortunately feels his mind racing and cloudy, so before he allows himself to completely slip up, he runs off to his quarters to put away his clothing- and possibly hide in solitude.

Chapter 5: Casual

Summary:

Alastor locks himself in his quarters in a panicked state, eventually returning to the lobby for some unexplained reason...

Alastor slams the door behind him with a force that echoes through the hallway, the lock clicking into place with a finality that leaves him alone with his pounding heart. His legs shake, not from the fear that typically courses through his veins, but from the unexpected toll the moment has taken on him. His body is burning with a fatigue so deep it settles into his bones, each muscle like a coiled spring finally snapping loose.

His hands, those hands, always so steady now feeling foreign, like they belong to someone else. They tremble slightly, an uncharacteristic vulnerability making his usually confident grasp falter. The sensation gnaws at him. It's uncomfortable. Unsettling. He clenches his fists, but the muscle ache is relentless. Every tendon, every fiber of his being screams at him to stop, to breathe, but he can't. Not yet.

A cold sweat coats his forehead, his pulse thundering in his ears, as if his heart can't quite catch up to the rest of him. His stomach churns, a nausea that creeps up from deep inside, making his throat tight. He struggles to take a steadying breath, but the dizziness pulls him further into a fog, each inhale shallow and uneven. He grips the edge of the nearby table, his knuckles whitening as if it might steady him, though it does little more than remind him of how out of control he feels at this moment.

His mind races, thoughts sharp and jagged, like shards of glass embedded into his skull, pushing through the dull, relentless headache that throbs just behind his eyes. The strange sensation of being so... human hits him harder than any physical ache. The adrenaline still pulses through his veins, and with it, the sharpness of his emotions, the ones he’s spent so long locking away, makes him feel raw, exposed.

The fear is gone now, replaced by something he doesn't know how to name. Confusion. Discomfort. Regret, maybe? He can't tell. His body aches from more than just exertion; it feels like he's been running from himself, and even in the solitude of his quarters, there’s no escape.

Bringing his taloned hands up to his hair, Alastor grabs fustfulls of red strands. Slowly leaning back against the door and allowing himself to slide down the painted wood. His muscles protest the movement, aching and trembling from the surge of energy that had been pushed to its limits. The floor feels cold beneath him, but the chill does little to quench the heat that still radiates off his skin.

His breath hitches as he sits, slumped in a way so uncharacteristic of him that it feels as though he's betraying everything he’s built, everything he’s controlled. His chest tightens, and the sharp, erratic beat of his heart reminds him of his humanity, something he loathes to acknowledge. With his talons now digging into his scalp, he feels the pressure mount like a weight in his skull that won’t release.

The unease doesn't fade. It grows, twisting in his gut as if something has cracked open inside him, and the contents are spilling out faster than he can comprehend. He doesn't want to think, doesn't want to feel. But it’s there, bubbling beneath the surface, a sharpness that pricks at the edges of his mind.

His thoughts scatter, chasing after the last few moments… Angel’s hesitant gratitude, the softness in his eyes. He tries to dismiss it, but it lingers like a sickly sweet aftertaste, filling his senses with a strange, unfamiliar longing.

The nausea rises again, a bitter, sour sensation in the back of his throat, but it's not just physical. It's the emotional weight of it, this care, the genuine concern he showed... It was so out of place, so wrong.

“Damn it! What is wrong with me!”

A weakness. He hates it. He hates that it exists in him.

His chest heaves as his body trembles, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Alastor can’t outrun what’s inside him. The adrenaline wanes, but what’s left in its wake is a slow, gnawing weariness. Exhaustion presses down on him, making his eyelids heavy as though he could slip into sleep. Yet he can’t. Not yet. Not with the storm inside his mind, still raging with the fury of the moment, like a beast he can’t tame.

He lifts his head slightly, eyes wide as if searching for something in the shadowed corners of his room. But there’s nothing there. Nothing except himself. Alone.

…

“I don't want to be alone”

A small voice inside of him murmurs. He isn't quite sure where it came from, it felt as if someone else had plucked his vocal cords for him. But, those small pathetic words resonate with him somehow. He doesn't want to be alone, not right now.

With a shaky breath and a shaky hand, he reaches down to push himself up. A rather poetic comedy. Still, with a quiver in his pose, he enters his washroom. Turning on the sink with a certain desperate ache, he cups his taloned hands under the slightly tinted liquid. A pipe problem surely. To add, his hard pointed fingertips don't exactly help create the best seal. The water spills out through the edges of his makeshift bowl.

Alastor leans himself low, fighting his inconvenient demon biology regarding his tall height. He splashes himself a few times, hesitating on the last few cup-fulls, slowly waterboarding himself.

A few moments pass, he slowly raises his gaze back to his reflection. With a delicate hand he reaches for his sharp cheek. How he despised the horrendously poetic biology sinners are forced to endure in death. God is a sadist getting off on our suffering. For all he knows, humans are just a rock in their shoe.

Alastor reaches for his pinkish red tufted ears, gripping one in each fist. Watching himself in the mirror, reflecting the deepest snarl he can muster up with his permanent smile, he yanks outwards. He knows they won't simply appear or pop off like some cheap children's toy, but surely he might as well try.

Though, with a sudden sparking sound of screeching in his ears like the sound of dragging a record needle all over a vinyl, he releases, twinging. He grips the counter-top in the poor attempt to stabilize himself. A quiet whimper escapes him as he turns his eyes back up to the mirror.

“Pull yourself together, Alastor.”

A few silent minutes pass before Alastor decides to reach for the door of his quarters. He unlocks the door, just enough to crack it open slightly, peering into the hallway like a cautious predator. A deep breath. "What am I doing?!" He steps back and places his hands on his hips, glaring at the door as if it had personally offended him. With a snap of his fingers, he straightens his posture and forces a wide, overly theatrical grin back onto his face. "Yes, yes. A mere sinner needs his assistance. How… charming." He speaks aloud, as if addressing a non-existent audience, trying to make himself believe in his own bravado. His eye twitches, what is happening to him!

With exaggerated care, he smooths down his vest, takes another deep breath, and opens the door dramatically, as if he’s entering a performance. He strides forward with extra pomp in each step, attempting to rid himself of the thought that he's actually nervous about… Angel. His sharp eyes scan the lobby as if he’s on the hunt for something, anything, to distract him from the gnawing feeling of vulnerability.

His eyes narrow as he walks, gently folding his arms behind his back in self-reflection. "You're overthinking, Alastor. Just… breathe." He inhales deeply, then exhales so dramatically, it’s as if he’s trying to rid himself of any trace of compassion. "I'm a creature of efficiency, precision. Calculated chaos."

Despite the words he speaks, his feet carry him down the hall with weaker and weaker confidence. He pauses for a beat before finally passing through the archway connection of the hallway and the lobby. With a flourish, he exits the hallway, now fully prepared to pretend this moment never happened.

Alastor’s gaze briefly flits to Angel but only for a second. He sees the other hotel resident and then looks away, pretending not to notice. “Ah, Angel, yes. How quaint.” A self-assured smile spreads across his face, his voice smooth and controlled.

He takes a few purposeful steps toward the center of the lobby, pausing in a place where he can be seen but not too close to Angel. His body language is open, yet somehow stiff and rigid — as though he’s keeping himself together by sheer force of will. The gloved hands are carefully clasped in front of him, and his posture is impeccable.

Alastor tilts his head ever so slightly, offering a practiced, almost whimsical smile, but the gleam in his eyes tells a different story, one that’s still tinged with a hint of awkwardness beneath the surface. He clears his throat before speaking, trying to sound casual, but there’s a subtle tightness to his words.

“Oh, how delightful to see the lobby in its usual state of… charm,” he says with a casual wave of his hand. He’s not addressing Angel directly at first, but he knows Angel is there, and he’s purposefully avoiding looking at him for too long. Control. Control. Control, he repeats silently.

He then steps toward the bar, slowly, as though he’s trying to appear casually engaged with the surroundings. But his eyes keep darting back to Angel, never fully relaxing, his focus constantly scanning the room. As he adjusts his tie with one hand, he speaks again, a little louder this time, his tone somehow both polite and unsettling.

Angel slowly turns his head towards Alastor's general direction, he raises an eyebrow, “You were just here? What do you mean ‘usual state of charm’?”

Alastor's eyes widen subtly, staring straight ahead towards the mismatched bottles against the bar shelves. He flicks his wrist and casually summons a glass of whisky so he isn't simply sitting weirdly at the bar stools.

… why did he say that-?

“... you’re being weird… Anyway- that weird drink you gave me is actually starting to help me a little… What did you say it was?” Angel leans himself on one palm

“A herbal tea..” Alastor’s tone is quiet.

“What?”

“A herbal tea! … Apologies- it’s just a mixture of herbs and roots… it's something I was taught when I was alive.” He remains faced away from Angel like some sort of weird glitched out NPC in a finicky picture-box video-game.

Angel pulls back slightly, shocked by the unusual outburst, “Uh, heya’ smiles, you alright?”

Alastor’s eyes flicker back to Angel for the briefest of moments, just long enough for his smile to tighten. His knuckles whiten around the glass he’s holding, but it’s hard to say whether it's from the tension or the effort of keeping himself grounded. His posture remains unnervingly perfect, but there’s a slight crack forming in his facade.

“Okay, you ask?” Alastor’s laugh comes out just a little too high-pitched, a touch forced, like someone trying to push through an unfamiliar emotion. He glances sideways at Angel, but there’s a quiver in his gaze, just visible enough to be caught if one were paying attention.

"I assure you, I’m as fine as always." He stiffens, straightening even further.

Angel cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “Uh-huh, sure you are, Al. You’re starting to act like a clockwork doll or something. What’s the deal? You got a secret or what?”

Alastor’s smile falters for a fraction of a second before he regains control, his voice sharpening. "I have no secrets, Angel. My actions are precise and intentional as always."

Despite his words, there’s something unsteady in his hands. He is fidgeting now, dragging the tip of his pointer finger talon around the rim of his glass, almost imperceptibly, as if he’s trying to suppress the growing restlessness inside of him. His eyes flicker toward Angel again, but he quickly turns away, as if the very act of acknowledging him is a breach of protocol.

Angel watches him for a moment, then slowly stands up from the sofa, stepping toward him and the bar with a half-lazy smirk. "You sure about that, sugar? 'Cause I gotta say, you're lookin' kinda jittery, and I’m startin' to think I’m not the only one who’s gotta, you know, ‘adjust’ to weird stuff around here."

Alastor sits absolutely still now, his sharp gaze fixed ahead of him, mouth twitching as if to say something, anything, but his pride holds him back. The tension thickens. “I’m merely… adjusting to my surroundings, Angel,” he finally mutters, his voice barely above a whisper. An unusual excuse but he stands his ground.

Angel grins, clearly enjoying the rare moment of seeing the infamous Radio Demon on edge. “Right, right, adjusting…” he pauses. “You sure it’s not a little complicated?”

Alastor’s breath hitches imperceptibly, but he doesn’t look at Angel. The cracks in his facade are starting to show now, the once carefully calculated mask beginning to slip. But no, he won’t let it break. He can’t.

“No, Angel,” he says, as his voice regains that eerie smoothness. “It’s nothing.”

A pause. Then, almost too quickly: “I’m quite sure I’m the last person who would ever be complicated, especially in this hell hole of a hotel, in hell especially! Now if you wouldn't mind, I have a drink to tend to!”

“Sure, the drink you haven't even glanced at since you conjured it up. You know, I pay attention too~ please~ I promise I'm a really good listener. Angel seats himself on the stool next to Alastor, raising one leg around the puffy seat like a frat-boy.

“A̵̤͒n̸̲͛g̷̠̏ẹ̵͝l̸̳̋…” Alastor grumbles with deep annoyance, a rattling static slipping through his voice.

“No no~ don't get spicy with me… is it because of me? Charlie? Some special someone~? Or is it just the little ol’ Radio Demon feeling pent u-”

“ANGEL. No, you can simply just- stop. I don't like your implications and I don't want anything to do with you.” Though, that last part was partially a lie, in a more platonic sense. He can't allow himself to admit it though. That would ruin his reputation, wouldn't it?

… Having a friend.

Alastor can't help but think back from the day before: the bus ride. The couple he analyzed in the back.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

His gaze fell on a pair of figures seated a few rows down near the back. At first glance, they appeared to be a couple, he had assumed as much, given the way they leaned into one another, the easy proximity, the shared laughter. They looked so effortless in their happiness, like a perfect match, as if they'd lived in that quiet, intimate space between them for years.

The devilish imp man was showing the woman something on his phone, and she leaned in with an expression that made Alastor grimace to himself. Her eyes twinkled, the kind of reaction that spoke of an inside joke or a moment of simple joy. It wasn’t hard to imagine the two of them as a couple. There was something in the way they exchanged glances, their comfort with one another, a sense of familiarity that only time could cultivate.

But as Alastor kept watching, something about their dynamic shifted in his mind. They weren’t just close, they were easy. There was no rush, no tension, no hint of expectation. He caught the way her shoulder nudged his playfully as she gave him a teasing shove, and he responded with a grin that spread across his face with the ease of someone who knew exactly how to laugh with her, how to keep the moment light and genuine.

It hit him then: they weren’t a couple. They were friends. Old friends, maybe, friends who had mastered the art of being entirely themselves together. There was something even more pleasant about it, something that made the whole scene feel warmer, gentler. No pressure, no drama, just a shared moment of connection.

₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚

“Alastor~ Alastor… Alastor! Hell to Alastor~?!”

He blinks back to reality from frantic snapping and waving in front of his face.

“Damn dude, I thought you were having an aneurism- Jesus christ…” Angel exhales, leaning his lower appendages in a crossed formation on the counter.

“... Apologies, I suppose I… zoned out a bit.”

“A bit!? I've seen druggies in the industry less ‘out of it’ than you just were… god… what were you thinking about?”

“... Nothing important… Would you like a drink?” Alastor hesitates.

“... Yeah, yeah I would…” Angel sighs, growing a smile.

Notes:

Teehee
Be safe ♡