Chapter Text
The first time Vox touched Alastor, it was casual. It was the late 1950s down in Hell. Television was on the rise and Vox was getting a bit of an ego.
He'd been happy for his friend, truly. He was such a pathetic little thing, fumbling his way through conversations with overlords several leagues above him. Vox was sweet, if a little strange. A little pushy when he felt like he was owed something. Nothing Alastor couldn't handle, of course.
Vox had been celebrating the founding of his company, Vox Technical. Not a very memorable name, but Alastor wasn't about to burst his bubble. Alastor was sitting next to him at the little, hole-in-the-wall lounge they both loved so much, sipping idly at their respective glasses of rye. And Vox, in his excitement, had placed a firm hand on Alastor's shoulder.
It felt wrong. Alastor didn't quite know why, this was his friend, was it not? He'd known Vox a few years now, known him to be a friendly face, as trustworthy as sinners in Hell are capable of being; which isn't very, but it is certainly better than nothing. Point being, Alastor didn't know why it felt wrong, only that it did, in a way that rang alarm bells in his ears that drowned out the conversation.
Alastor had snapped, "do not touch me!"
A knee-jerk reaction, more instinct than sense. Vox had reeled back, surprised, and said, "what— why?"
"I needn't explain myself," Alastor had said, his heart rate slowing down as he measured his words, as he searched again for a reason but could not find one, "just don't."
Vox had visibly tried to shake it off and move on, but he spent much of the rest of the evening with a hurt look on his face. Like he'd been rejected. Ostracized. Alastor hid it well, those more sentimental emotions, but the sight stirred something guilty in him, something that asked Alastor 'why' and did not accept 'I don't know' for an answer. He never did tell Vox that he'd noticed.
***
Alastor's nose scrunches at the meal he had, up until a moment ago, been trying to eat. A bland bowlful of oatmeal, prescribed by Doctor Charlie to replace his usual fare while he is 'healing' from his week in Vox's unfortunate company. Nonsense, Alastor thinks, and told Charlie as much, but Charlie is rather convincing when she wants to be and he doesn't particularly mind the concession.
But then the act of conceding in itself had triggered a memory, and now Alastor is glaring at his mushy oats in the Hazbin's small staff kitchen, because he is fairly certain Vox knew Alastor had noticed his pathetic sulking. Shit, there is a not-insignificant chance that Vox had been sulking on purpose just to evoke feelings of guilt in him. Probably. He thinks.
Maybe he oughtn't ascribe more intention to Vox's actions than there truly was. It isn't as if the man is very clever.
The other half of Alastor's brain snaps at himself that he oughtn't excuse him either. Vox is a manipulative shit, always has been.
Alastor gives up on his mush, the spoon clinking gently against the porcelain bowl, and pushes the heel of his palm between his eyes, trying to shake off the cyclical train of thought he knows will get him nowhere.
He almost longs for the days before he willingly put himself in Vox's claws, when moments just like this were not nearly so common.
Something brushes Alastor's shoulder and he jerks, feedback screeching as he pushes back in his chair. His voice comes out staticky and snappish as he shouts, "DO NOT TOUCH ME!"
Lucifer stands a few feet away, wincing and holding a palm to his ear. His other hand is holding Alastor's forgotten bowl of slop, stacked atop a pile of other dishes.
Alastor quiets the feedback and quickly stands, straightens his coat, clears his throat and says, quieter this time, "ah, apologies, Sire. I am... not fond of being touched."
Lucifer blinks at him slowly, a brow raised, "okay? Noted. Sorry I surprised you. I'd appreciate a quieter telling-off next time, thanks."
And then he takes the dishes to the sink, apparently content to end the conversation there.
Alastor's brow furrows and, nonsensically, he follows Lucifer's path.
"You aren't going to ask why?"
Lucifer rolls up his sleeves and plunges a plate into the basin full of steaming, sudsy water, "I don't care why. I do, however, care about the integrity of my eardrums."
Alastor studies him for a moment, trying to discern Lucifer's motives on the delicately carved features of his marble-white face. He finds nothing. Lucifer only looks passively interested in the conversation, more focused on trying to remove a stubborn glob of... something... from what appears to have been Niffty's plate. He is using his hands to do so. No sponge or rag. Just clawed fingers scraping unpleasantly against porcelain. It is amusing to watch a king and angel older than time itself wash dishes. He has clearly never tried.
Alastor prods him in the shoulder, trying to get some kind of reaction, but Lucifer only sighs, "I'm a bit busy here, Bambi. Doing, you know, work."
"You could make them clean in an instant, Sire," Alastor scoffs, "you're really not going to beg for an explanation?"
"Charlie asked me to do it by hand like everyone else, so that's what I'm doing. Anything for my little girl, right? And no, I don't do begging. Not for you, at least. Tell me if you want, can't promise I'll be paying much attention at the moment, though."
Alastor huffs, "what is wrong with you?"
Lucifer drops a mug he had been scraping at ineffectually in the water and turns to look at him, annoyance clear on his pretty face, "sorry, did you want me to invade your privacy? It does not matter why you don't want to be touched, dickhead. I don't need to know and I don't really care! I just won't do that. Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to do my assigned chore and my ears are still fucking ringing!"
Alastor looks him up and down, unsure what to say to that, "fine. I'll endeavor to preserve the sanctity of your divine eardrums, Sire. But no promises," he hisses.
Lucifer's eyelid twitches in his irritation, "fine, whatever, just give it a shot."
Alastor begins to gather the shadows under his feet, lapping at his ankles like pooling ink. He prods Lucifer's shoulder one more time before he goes, "and Sire? A sponge might benefit you."
Alastor laughs as he drifts into the shadows at Lucifer's responding shout of anger.
***
Alastor is... stuck. Again. Stuck on the balcony of the Hazbin, his eyes on the crowded lobby.
Today is the kind of day where he wants so badly to touch. To hold. To feel the press of safe hands on his skin, squeezing his shoulders, cradling his jaw, scratching the sensitive spot at the base of his ears.
He also knows that he will hate every second of it.
It is an odd thing, touch starvation. Alastor does not like being touched.
He doesn't.
But he wants it so very much.
His mother used to touch him frequently, hugs and squeezes and pats to his cheek. Niffty does as well, but Niffty is different, and the touches are always brief. They do little to quell the ache.
He hates touch.
He knows this to be true. An immutable fact of his weary existence.
***
"But Alastor, you know I'm a touchy guy! We're friends, aren't we? Friends make compromises!"
Alastor looked at him warily, his shoulders tense, "I— I suppose that is true. But must you touch me so often? I don't like it. You know that."
Alastor wasn't even sure he knew that. He thought he used to not mind touch quite so much. These days he brushed off even Mimzy's touches, even though they used to be the kind of close that saw them sleeping in a heap together on Alastor's overstuffed chaise with a jazz record playing in the background.
Vox shrugged, leaning back in his office chair in the shitty little building he was leasing for his company.
"How about I let you know when I need some good old fashioned touching, so you've got some warning ahead of time, hm? If it's really such a big deal, then I'll tough it out until you can do touch, okay? All I need is the occasional hug or something. That's what friends do! See? I can make compromises."
Was Alastor really so... unyielding? This was a friend, ostensibly. He liked Vox. Cared for him! Enough that even a few years ago, when Vox had confessed a level of romantic feeling for Alastor, Alastor had tried his best to put that to rest kindly. Alastor had never wanted to be kind before. He also had very few friends, but those he did have he would move mountains for. It had always been that way.
Vox had only brought up the rejection a handful of times. Usually when he was distressed by something unrelated. Perhaps... perhaps he could be forgiven. And perhaps Alastor could concede this one thing. Grin and bear it.
"Fine, if it'll get you out of my hair about it. A... hug... on occasion. Never in public, I've a reputation to maintain, and when I tell you no, you respect that, alright?"
Vox cheered happily, "yeah yeah, you got it, Alastor! Jeez, you're like an alley cat, you know that?"
Alastor only nodded numbly, feeling a tension in his shoulders that shouldn't be there. Not here. Not with his closest friend. He wondered again for the thousandth time what was wrong with him. He simply must hate being touched more than he thought. He bit the inside of his cheek as he processed that. Well. He'd grin and bear it for Vox's sake. It was the least he could do, no?
For a friend.
***
Alastor's claws dig into the bannister, peeling up curls of wood. He grits his teeth and keeps his gaze focused on Lucifer; the king is currently looking overwhelmed in a crowd of excited sinners in the Hazbin's busy lobby.
Alastor hates Vox.
He hates him so fucking much.
The memory plays again in his head, only this time slightly different. This time he stands his ground. This time he tells Vox, very firmly, that he will not stand for it.
He knows it wouldn't have mattered.
So he tries again.
This time, Vox isn't there at all. Instead it is Lucifer. Lucifer who only yesterday informed Alastor quite assuredly that he did not care what Alastor's reasons were. He simply would not touch him.
As if it were easy.
Maybe... maybe it is?
Alastor wants to dig his claws into his skin and tear. He feels restless. He aches, craves a safe touch.
If it had been Lucifer in that memory, Alastor thinks it likely wouldn't have happened at all. How odd. Lucifer is not a friend. He is a rival at best and at worst an annoying insect, buzzing around the hotel with his manic energy.
Lucifer would have backed off immediately. Of that, Alastor is certain. He knows a lie when he sees it, and Lucifer wears his lies like a bright red clown nose: extremely hard to miss, even at a glance.
Alastor glares at Lucifer's nervous walk through the crowd, trying to gently push sinners away with the end of his apple-topped cane. Suddenly, impulsively, Alastor decides to try something.
He'll save Lucifer from the crowd while he's at it.
Alastor reappears in a fountain of liquid shadow on the lobby floor.
Lucifer stumbles back from another sinner and trips directly into Alastor's chest.
Lucifer groans and rubs his forehead. It takes several moments before he looks up at Alastor, guilt in his eyes but annoyance on his lips, "I hate it when you do that."
Alastor offers a serene smile and leans down, down into Lucifer's personal space until they are face to face, "I'm going to be borrowing you for a moment, Sire. Do try not to scream."
"Wha— hey!" He shouts, but Alastor's already wrapping Lucifer up in shadows the way he does himself.
He transports them both to the staff parlor. The one with the so-called 'conversation pit' that gives Alastor the impression that Lucifer was particularly fond of the 70s. A nice spread of couches would have been sufficient, but of course Lucifer couldn't resist an opportunity to showboat when he was constructing the hotel.
Alastor rises from the floor, perfectly composed as he always is. He waits patiently while Lucifer tumbles out of the shadows in a ball of fiery inconvenience, all horns and flames and red red eyes.
Lucifer stands abruptly and stomps up to Alastor like he means to say something Alastor was never going to listen to anyway, so Alastor doesn't feel bad about interrupting him.
"I need you to touch me."
Lucifer stops.
He stands, frozen, his lips parted in surprise, his brow arched. It seems to take much longer than usual for it to register with him what Alastor has said.
Still waiting...
"What?!"
There it is.
Lucifer has pulled back from Alastor's space, his arms flailing as if to protect himself from some nebulous, imaginary threat, his face having gone a rather fascinating shade of marigold. His more demonic traits recede, replaced only by fluster.
Alastor cocks his head to one side, "just for a moment, Sire. I'm testing something."
Lucifer lowers his arms warily, though his face is still flushed, "Hells, Bambi. It's like you thrive on giving me heart attacks. I'm pretty sure there's an upper limit on how many of those a guy can take, Al!"
Alastor rolls his eyes and points at the couch.
Lucifer, for all his complaining, goes willingly. He settles into the cushions, spine stiff, and looks up at Alastor expectantly.
Alastor huffs as he too sits among the garishly colored throw pillows. He turns to face Lucifer, "you aren't a 'guy' though."
Lucifer lets out a sigh that sounds almost relieved, and Alastor wonders to himself why, but doesn't think he wants to know the answer.
"Fine, seraphim then. There's gotta be an upper limit for everyone, Bambi, and you are perilously close to being the first to find mine."
Alastor grins, feeling, for the first time this morning, a bit more like himself as he replies, "I suppose I'll have to try harder, then."
Lucifer groans, "yeah, I should've expected that. Handed you that one on a silver platter, didn't I, Mr. Never-Miss-An-Opportunity-To-Be-Obnoxious."
Alastor chuckles at that. A real one.
Probably the first real laugh he's had since before he walked into Vox's territory and made him an offer.
It feels good.
Alastor tries to hold onto that feeling, but it slips away as he remembers what he just asked Lucifer to do. To touch.
God, he wants that. He wants it so badly. He wants a touch he can trust. A touch that won't hurt. A touch that doesn't feel like livewire in his skin always pushing pushing pushing for more than he can give.
He is also, inexplicably, nervous.
The Radio Demon does not get nervous.
He doesn't. He is fearless! Alastor has survived horrors most people could never dream of and come out the other side wearing a smile and whistling a jaunty tune.
But what if it proves Alastor correct? What if he really does just despise being touched, and he is cursed forever to crave touch but never be able to tolerate it.
Worse, though, is the question: what if it proves him wrong?
Lucifer is looking at him, worry on his artistic features.
Alastor hates it.
"Whatever it is you're mulling over, Sire, I don't want to hear it."
Lucifer swallows, "yeah, yeah, I hear you. I'm just a little confused, okay? First, you have a Certified Moment in the kitchen telling me not to touch you. Which is cool! I am perfectly a-okay with not doing that. But now today you're asking me, me of all people, to touch you and— I don't get it."
Alastor snorts, "and you won't! I have no intention of telling you a single damned thing. Now, hand, if you please."
Lucifer eyes him for a moment, and Alastor wonders if he's going to pull away. Leave. Abandon. It wouldn't be the first time someone had decided Alastor was not worth the trouble it took to understand him. This time would be easy to deal with, though. Alastor was not attached to Lucifer, so letting him go would take only the effort of watching a paper boat drift downstream.
But Lucifer only shrugs and settles (entirely incorrectly, with his legs criss-crossed like a child) on the couch facing Alastor. He puts his hand between them, palm facing up, and waits.
Alastor reaches for it hesitantly, his aura of radio static going high-pitched with stress, and then, with no fanfare at all...
He touches Lucifer's ash-dark hand.
It... isn't terrible.
The horrible ache for contact is soothed, barely.
Alastor kind of wants to cry. Whether in grief or awe he isn't sure. Both, probably.
He takes Lucifer's hand within both of his and slowly explores even more touch. His hands smooth over Lucifer's palm, touch between those slim fingers, rub up his forearm. Alastor's breath catches as he realizes he hasn't willingly touched someone for this long in... years, he thinks.
Alastor grips Lucifer tighter, revelling in the feeling of soothing that desire to touch. He grasps Lucifer's palm tightly and tangles their fingers together, flexing them just to see Lucifer's tendons shift and tighten. He shuts his eyes. He brings the back of Lucifer's palm up to his cheek and presses into it, seeking more. More comfort in a touch he is certain, even if he isn't sure why, does not seek to take something from him.
Alastor lets out a breath, his brows scrunched up tight. He knows he needs to let go. He knows.
He doesn't want to.
He didn't realize how good it would feel.
Alastor sighs and opens his eyes, preparing to release Lucifer only to find the man staring back at him with something like wonder on his face.
Lucifer does not try to take back his hand.
Alastor does not try to give it back.
They agree, silently, to let Alastor get as much from this as he can.
Alastor snatches up the opportunity greedily.
When they part ways, Lucifer gives him an odd smile. He walks away cradling the hand that Alastor had been touching.
Alastor retreats to his quarters to parse what this means. What to do with the knowledge that even decades after Alastor escaped him, Vox's afterimage is still ruining his life.
Maybe... just maybe, Alastor doesn't hate being touched as much as he thought.
It feels good.
It feels like grief.
***
Alastor never had many friends. He was always charming, yes. His radio career and a number of turned-down propositions were a testament to that. But he has always been sort of offputting. The kind of wrong that other people seemed to sense and shy away from innately.
He hadn't known what to do when he was lying alone on the pavement, choking on blood, probably moments from meeting an exorcist's blade as chaos rained around him.
So he tuned into Vox's frequency.
Nobody else really cared much for him anyway. He didn't want to call upon Vox. He didn't want the man... his friend, he reminded himself, to see this. To see a weakness he could exploit.
But there was nobody else. Save, perhaps, for his contract holder, but he didn't think Rosie would notice anyway. Not right away, at least. He wouldn't fade into obscurity, no, but he would not leave behind any mourners.
Except for Vox.
So he called. He called and he rambled over the frequency. It wasn't coherent, not really. It was a mess of grief and desperation, a cry for help as much as an acceptance of death. He spoke of his mother, how he missed her so dearly. How she would hate him for what he has become, and how he deserved it. He spoke of his father. He spoke of the gunshot in the woods that fateful night, and the agony of being torn apart as he bled messily into the bayou's stagnant water. He knew this would be his fate. He did. He knew it was coming and now that it was here, he knew he deserved it. He was not a good man. He was barely a man at all. He was a restless animal, trapped in a cycle powered by his own predilection to viciousness and the ghosts that dogged his footsteps everywhere he went.
Alastor did not die that night. He should have, perhaps, because nobody came for him. Vox never gave any indication he was listening. He woke up shivering, alone, in an alcove in an alley, surrounded by corpses festering with angelic energy. Perhaps he had been mistaken for one of the dead. Perhaps it was blind fucking luck. He did not know.
He forgot about that broadcast, sent to Vox's personal line.
Years later, after yet another argument about their relationship, about why Alastor did not love him, Alastor received a prerecorded signal. He played it, exasperated, only to find himself listening to... himself.
"I'm sorry, old pal, if you only hear this after I'm gone. I'd ask for your assistance, but I doubt there's much you can do for me now, haha!"
Alastor blinked into his coffee, alone on the balcony of his radio tower, watching the rain melt through the sidewalk below and any sinner unfortunate enough to be caught unawares.
"You know, I was never a good man. I know that, of course! It is what makes me who I am! I fear it's finally my time to face real judgement, isn't it? What- what is it you think happens after a second death? Is it the bliss of nothingness? A second, even worse Hell?!" His voice said, manic and desperate, delirious, "or perhaps reincarnation! Who knows, chap, but my blood is staining the concrete here and I've got little else to think about, HA! A good show I've put on, don't you think? My mother would be proud!"
Alastor set down his coffee, suddenly nauseated. He walked inside, leaving his mug to fill with acid drop by drop on the balcony.
"She wouldn't. Not really. Lord, she'd probably hate me now, wouldn't she?! She was a saint, you know. The kindest person I ever met. She endured much, keeping me sane and alive for as long as she did, sheltering me from... from dear old dad. She would have hated the man I became. And you know what the best part is? I deserve it! I deserve every bit of her ire, her loathing. I only pray she never finds out who I became. It'd hurt her too much."
Alastor sat heavily in his broadcasting chair, staring numbly at the switchboard.
"I deserved it all, didn't I? Every moment of suffering, of pain. The bullet between my eyes and the dogs that came after. Do you know what it sounds like when your flesh tears from your body underwater? Fuck... I don't know what to do. I don't want to die here."
The recording ended with a muffled sob, his own voice breaking over static and blood and gasping breaths.
A second recording came after, shorter.
"Shit, I'm so sorry, Alastor. I would have come if I'd known, of course I would have! I just found this in my archive. God, did you really think I wouldn't have come? I love you, Alastor. What more do you need? I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you then, but I will be now. Let me come over, we can cuddle or something, yeah? I'll even let you play your old-ass music."
***
Alastor has slaughtered and devoured no less than nine sinners this morning.
He hates that even way back when, when he cared so deeply about his 'friend,' just happy to be close with someone, that he must have known something was wrong with Vox. Somehow, some way, he knew, and he felt it so innately that he convinced himself that he hated being touched by anyone at all.
He hates that Vox had that much power over him.
And now... now Alastor doesn't know how he feels about touch. He knows that sometimes it feels like it burns, like there are tiny barbs digging into his flesh, like he wants to tear his skin off and scrub it clean.
He also knows that sometimes he craves it, and sometimes... evidently... he doesn't mind it. Enjoys it, even! And with Lucifer of all people.
What a joke.
Alastor pushes forcefully through a side door that leads from the outside and into the staff parlor. He's dripping in viscera, filthy with the stench of death. Whatever, Niffty will enjoy scrubbing the stains from the carpet later.
Cherri Bomb, now residing at the Hazbin in pursuit of redemption, is alone on the couch. Angel is gone, back to his disgusting insectoid dealholder, and that reminder only sours Alastor's mood even further.
Cherri glances up at him somberly, cradling the little pig that used to follow Angel Dust around. She tries for a greeting. Some soft, sob thing that Alastor can't fucking stand and doesn't want to hear right now.
He snaps.
"If you've nothing better to do beyond sulking, might I recommend doing so somewhere I don't have to witness your pathetic face?"
Cherri's face crumples.
Alastor does not feel better.
He feels... he doesn't know what he feels.
Angry, probably. Angry at himself and angry at Vox and angry at the universe for putting Vox in his path that mundane night on a mundane Thursday on Hell's mundane streets 70 years ago.
Alastor trudges through the parlor and into the hall.
He shoves past Lucifer on his way out, probably staining his pristine white coat with sinner guts.
Killing them hadn't even helped! He'd been staring down at a terrified face on the pavement, saying prayers to a god who didn't love them, and all he could think of was that stupid recording. Of his own voice played back at him so far in the future he'd forgotten about it, terrified and hopeless and full of self-loathing.
Alastor ate the sinner in one merciless bite, felt his dying screams vibrate against the inside of his esophagus, and didn't feel any better.
That was when he gave up, shrunk down to human-ish size, and returned on foot to the hotel.
Vox probably did hear it the first time and opted not to respond. He probably saved it just so he could weaponize it against Alastor later. He knew exactly what he was doing, didn't he? It was no careless mistake, forcing Alastor to hear himself on the brink of death, desperately rambling off his deepest regrets.
It was intentional, to manipulate Alastor into doing what he wanted, to cow him. And it worked.
Alastor snarls and pulls roughly on the blood-sticky strands of his hair.
"Yikes, Bambi, that cannot be good for the follicles."
Alastor pulls his hand away quickly, his face contorting in rage as he turns. Lucifer is leaning against the wall in the stairwell. He must have followed after Alastor shoved past him earlier.
He looks... calmer than Alastor feels. His arms are crossed casually over his chest, his expression unamused as he scratches lightly at the bright red smear across his shoulder.
"What the fuck do you want, Lucifer?"
Lucifer glances up at him, wearing the sort of concern he only ever puts on for Charlie, and Alastor wants to bite him. He wants to tear into his face with unforgiving teeth and leave him marred and ruined.
Lucifer grimaces as though he can read Alastor's thoughts, "well, I was going to argue with you about staining my coat, but now I'm gonna argue with you about accepting a little help before you scare the afterlife out of one of the guests."
Alastor stares incredulously at Lucifer's outstretched hand, "why the fuck would I want help, let alone from you?"
"Because you need it, and I'm here."
Alastor looks back up to his stupid, perfect face that wears no pity and... and he wants to push him away. He wants to reject this offer of help.
He wants to accept it.
He wants to go back out and eat another handful of shrieking sinners.
Vox would want him alone, isolated.
Alastor growls under his breath and takes Lucifer's hand.
He drags Lucifer up the stairs and into his side of their shared floor of the Hazbin; they live on opposite sides of the very top floor, distant from the rabble and, usually, desperately trying to ignore each other.
He hesitates for a moment. He doesn't let people into his room, but Lucifer is here and he wants to help and Alastor feels completely unmoored, adrift in unpleasant memories. He craves control, and perhaps Lucifer can provide.
Alastor pushes open the door.
Vox never saw Alastor's bayou. Vox saw a lot, stuck his sparking fingers into so many aspects of Alastor's life that by the time he got away Alastor was a different man entirely. But this? This was sacred. It was Alastor's and, more importantly now, Vox had never been allowed to taint it.
He doesn't know why he allows Lucifer to see it now.
He hopes he does not come to regret that decision.
Part of him is so, so certain that he won't.
Alastor locks them both on the other side of the door which, from here, appears to be free standing. It sits on a mossy patch in the middle of the Louisiana wetlands, or as close to them as Alastor could get.
Lucifer gasps softly, and Alastor nearly regrets everything but... he looks... happy? At peace? Awe-stricken? Ruby red irises set in their backdrop of pale, sparkling gold jump from one thing to the next with a sort of manic fascination. The murky water flowing sluggishly from a source much deeper within Alastor's personal pocket dimension and its emerald green depths. The towering cypresses laden with spanish moss. The lone egret perched delicately in the shallows that watches the pair of them curiously. The comforting shadows that live between every tree trunk, every reed and blade of grass and all the gnarled magnolia trees in full bloom that guard the edges of the water, beautiful sentinels.
Lucifer squeezes his hand gently, as if to ground himself amidst it all, and Alastor belatedly realizes that he is still holding it.
He doesn't let go.
"This is... did you make this?"
Lucifer's voice is soft, raspy like he doesn't quite know how to push the air over his vocal cords. A flurry of magnolia petals picks up with the humid wind, chased by fat, lazy fireflies blinking in the perpetual dusk here.
Alastor moves closer by a fraction of an inch, enraptured by Lucifer's fascination with this precious thing that Alastor holds so close, "I did. It is... more a home to me than anywhere else ever was."
It's the most he's ever said about his past to anyone at the Hazbin; it is also a clear indicator of the extent of Alastor's emotional exhaustion that he has said even that much. Lucifer finally meets his eyes and nods, seeming to immediately understand the significance of that as he says, "it's one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen, Al, I see why you wanted to keep it. And the magic it must've taken to bring it here, bring it to life like this... you never fail to surprise, do you?"
Alastor's chest feels warm, light. He flicks his eyes away as he struggles to put a lid on what such open appreciation of his vulnerabilities makes him feel.
"You should hardly be shocked, Sire, I am a man of incredible talent. The rest of Hell knows it, perhaps you ought to pay more attention, hm?"
Lucifer laughs softly, his head shaking and his fingers twitching in Alastor's grasp but making no move to let go, "yeah, maybe. But I get the picture now, don't I? I think I can be forgiven. Now let me help you, 'kay?"
Alastor allows Lucifer to lead him deeper into the bayou, only speaking to inform Lucifer of hazards he might lead them into. They wander until they find a magnolia tree, bigger than all the rest, that sits lonely on a small cliff, its roots a tangled mess where they protrude from the soil and dip toward the water.
They sit against its ancient trunk and look out over the murky water, watching the reflection of the fireflies, so similar to their starry counterparts that peek in from the gaps in the canopy.
Alastor says nothing.
Lucifer allows it.
"I'm gonna clean you up, okay? Just magic, no touching, but if you don't get clean you're gonna get itchy and then you'll be eating sinners for a whole new reason."
Lucifer tries to pull his hand out of Alastor's and Alastor panics. His frequency squeals and he tightens his grip, his arm moving with Lucifer's as he pulls back.
Lucifer looks at him with surprise, but he doesn't say anything. He simply lets Alastor continue to hold, to feel the press of their palms together, the thrum of angelic blood in angelic veins beneath thin, sin-stained skin.
Something in Alastor resettles and he looks away in shame as Lucifer sends a wave of cool, gentle magic across him. Little swirls of golden ether whisk away the gore and straighten his clothes, mend tears and heal small cuts and already-fading bruises.
It's supposed to feel violating, Alastor thinks. Touch, another person's energy on his skin. This should be making him cringe or pull away or bite or hurt. It doesn't.
Alastor allows Lucifer to sit next to him, shoulder to shoulder, and practically melts into the contact.
Lucifer says nothing.
Alastor says nothing, until he does.
Several minutes have gone by in silence when Alastor says, barely considering his words, "he used to touch me a lot."
Lucifer looks at him, Alastor only looks forward as he continues, "Vox, I mean. I didn't like it."
Lucifer bites his lip, "yeah, I heard. When I was trapped in the... bubble... cage thing. You called him a 'fucking creep.' I figured there was a history there. Bet it felt good to tell him off like that though, huh?"
Inexplicably, Alastor laughs. It's a weak, surprised thing, tugged gently from depths of his heart he didn't know were still there.
"I- I suppose it did, yes."
Lucifer grins, "that's the second time I've made you laugh in two weeks, Bambi. Do I get a prize for making it happen?"
"No."
Lucifer laughs, "okay, fair enough. You wanna explain why you spent the morning tearing up sinners on 66th street? The news said there was a bear sinner that met a particularly... grisly end. Ha!"
"Never quit your day job in favor of stand-comedy, Sire," Alastor grimaces, "and to answer your question, I thought... well I suppose I thought I hated touch."
Lucifer sobers up at that, "ah, the thing you were testing. And I guess that has something to do with Vox?"
Alastor nods.
"Okay, gotcha. Well, nine sinners is pretty good restraint for a Radio Demon processing trauma, so I guess I should commend you for your efforts there."
"Trauma?!" Alastor snarls, but even as he reacts he knows it's true. That too makes him angry.
Lucifer shrugs, "sounds like trauma to me, but I'm in no place to be judging people's mental states, I guess."
"You are not."
Alastor presses closer, his shoulder squeezing against Lucifer's.
"Well, what do you want to do about it then?"
"Your distinctly unsound mental state?"
Lucifer winces, "yeah, had that coming. I meant your touch thing. You said you thought you hated it, yeah? But... you're touching me now. You seem okay, at least."
Alastor is so very tired, and he wants only to be held, even if the admission chafes his pride.
"I don't know."
Lucifer sighs, "yeah, I guess I wouldn't know either. Maybe we can just... stick around here for a while. I can come back, if you want. You can touch me all you want."
Alastor makes a face and Lucifer cringes, belatedly realizing what that sounded like, "okay yeah, I meant like... hold my hand or cuddle or something, I dunno. Whatever you want, Bambi."
Cuddle or something.
Alastor bites back the sudden urge to tear himself away and reminds himself that this is not Vox, and he has asked Lucifer here. Vox has never seen his bayou, but Lucifer has. Vox is tall where Lucifer is short, Vox is modern where Lucifer is painfully outdated, Vox is blue where Lucifer is pink.
Alastor has initiated every touch they've had thus far, and that is already so much more that Lucifer has given him than Vox ever did.
"Why are you doing this?"
Lucifer plucks a magnolia off the ground, its petals starting to wilt. It likely fell from the tree a couple of days ago. Lucifer twirls it idly between the fingers of his free hand and then tucks it behind his ear.
The flower's color is a nigh perfect match for Lucifer's milk white skin. Alastor notes the way the flower softens Lucifer's features a bit, makes him less the king and more the... whatever it is Lucifer is rapidly becoming to him.
A friend, maybe.
Alastor doesn't know if he's allowed to have friends.
Maybe it's okay to try?
Lucifer looks at Alastor with tentative fondness, "I saw you hurting. I know I know, we're usually at each other's throats but... you reminded me so much of myself, I guess. It's different from mine, but I know fear when I see it."
Alastor clicks his tongue disapprovingly, "I don't fear, your majesty."
"I do. And maybe I fear for you sometimes, when you get that look on your face like you're a million miles and a nightmare away. Isn't that enough of a reason?"
Alastor looks away.
He presses tighter to Lucifer. The warmth of his skin seeps through the layers of their clothing and gently soothes Alastor's fried nerves.
Vox's platitudes always boiled down to one thing. Himself. It was always about him. Always Vox's needs, Vox's neuroses, Vox's requirements to maintain a friendship. Alastor was always the one expected to accommodate, expected to accept that Vox would not.
And this. Isn't. Vox.
Lucifer is so far from Vox it's almost laughable. Lucifer is strange, and has his own host of neuroses; he is easily distracted and seems to have more bad days than good, but he isn't Vox. Lucifer is offering, not demanding. Not negotiating. Not using his pain against him.
Alastor thinks he could see himself learning to touch again, and he thinks he can see Lucifer being the one to help him do it.
"Fine. But the moment you cross a line it is over and so help me god I will find a way to harm you."
Lucifer drops his head onto Alastor's shoulder and shrugs, "I wouldn't expect anything less."
***
"Why don't you love me?"
It was a question Alastor had answered a million times, in a million ways, so he had known it was coming by the look on Vox's face alone.
"I do, just not the way you want me to."
Why isn't that enough? He did not ask. He was afraid of the answer.
Vox had changed so much since their first meeting. He upgraded his hardware with the times, gone for a color tv screen that looked too life-like for Alastor to ever be fully comfortable with. His clothing had changed too, sleeker, more mainstream, more the business-man he was trying and succeeding at becoming.
"I just don't get it, what did I do wrong? We're pretty close, aren't we? Explain to me why Al, I'm just trying to understand. Is it my looks? My powers? Why can't you feel for me like I do for you? I've done nothing but support you for years now!"
This is why. Your incessant pushing, your complete disrespect of every boundary I have ever tried to set. Alastor thought, and internally slapped himself for the cruelty, for thinking so lowly of the closest friend he ever had. The only friend he had had in years.
"I told you, I don't know. Why do you need an answer so badly?"
Alastor felt trapped, like a creature kept, gawked at and prodded and scolded when it bit back. Dramatics. He knew he could go whenever he wanted. Did he? Did he want to go? No. No, best not to entertain that. He was just being his usual, emotionally stunted self. Vox complained about it often, about Alastor's overreactions. Like an alley-cat, he always said.
"Because I need you."
Always the same, this conversation. Rehashing old arguments. Need, Vox had said for the millionth time. Alastor knew that already. He always showed up for the dwindling number of people in his life. He was cruel, a nightmare, to the rest of Hell but for those he considered close he was prepared to do almost anything.
Why was it never enough?
"Ha, I'd probably just off myself if you weren't here, you know. You keep me stable, Al. And I keep your narcissistic ass humble! It's why we work."
Alastor was tired of humility.
***
"Why me?"
Alastor has taken to touch with the sort of ravenous greed one usually only sees in packs of pirhanas. Even now he is draped over Lucifer like a blanket, smothering him where they lay on the ground beneath their magnolia tree, petals sticking to their clothes.
It has been weeks of this; eight to be precise, Alastor has been counting, and they've formed something of a routine. All Alastor needs to do is find Lucifer on those days he craves contact, the days his skin feels numb and electrified all at the same time, and Lucifer simply lets him.
Alastor decided he was done with shame the moment he went to find Lucifer and saw him trapped in a meeting with Charlie and Vaggie. He was aching for touch fiercely that day, needed it the way fire requires oxygen to survive; some part of him had wondered if he might actually perish if he didn't get his fix. So he'd simply appeared behind Lucifer and draped himself over his shoulders tiredly.
Nerves prickled still, at the display in front of others, but the contact felt so divine he couldn't bring himself to care.
He tuned out Vaggie and Charlie's reactions, Lucifer's stuttered response, and focused only on the warmth of the Devil pressed to his chest, arms, cheek.
Now he cares little where Lucifer is or what he's doing, eager to touch and knowing that for reasons beyond him, Lucifer is one of the few people who can offer that to him.
He has decided simply not to address the other hotel residents' confusion about the matter.
Alastor is rather tired of shame now too.
Alastor grumbles and buries his face in Lucifer's neck, "that's too vague, Sire. Care to elaborate?"
Lucifer huffs a laugh and presses his palm to the center of Alastor's back with pleasant, grounding pressure, "I meant why have me do your whole... touching thing. Not that I mind! Whoooo boy do I not mind. Just... I'm curious."
Alastor does not bother trying to parse out Lucifer's strange range of emotions through that. The man is prone to rambling, there is little point in trying to understand all of it. He picks out the important bits and pushes himself up onto his elbows to better see Lucifer's face.
"You were there."
Lucifer frowns, "o-oh. Right. Well, okay then... haha. Glad I could be of assistance then!"
Alastor... doesn't like that. He doesn't like the odd sadness in Lucifer's response. He doesn't like how Lucifer pushed it back, chewed and swallowed it and for what? For Alastor's sake? It'd be kind, if the wobbly smile on Lucifer's face wasn't so distressing.
Alastor does not pause to ponder why Lucifer's sadness is so different from Vox's. Why it doesn't fill him with anger or fear or muddy memories.
He sighs and brushes a strand of silky hair from Lucifer's forehead, "you are pink. You are painfully behind the times, and that is coming from me of all demons, Sire. You apologize even when you have done nothing wrong. You care deeply for others even though you claim not to, which would be saying a lot if you cared for yourself in any capacity. You are short, and blonde, and you hear me when I say no, and you saw me and chose- well, that is to say-"
You didn't use my suffering against me.
Lucifer stares up at him with wide eyes, his cheeks having gone an attractive, honeyed shade. The magnolia petals are stuck to his hair, his shirt, his neck. He's beautiful here, in eternal dusk, in Alastor's domain, with the flowers of Alastor's home decorating his hair. He is beautiful when he seems, without fanfare or further questions, to understand Alastor's meaning.
Alastor's heart skips a beat.
He crushes the feeling down with a firm denial.
Lucifer smiles, a small thing that barely lifts the corners of plush lips but contains a level of understanding Alastor has scarcely seen before, and never directed at himself.
"I see you."
Alastor believes him.