Chapter Text
I watch, from the lobby’s couch, as he descends the stairs. Evening has fallen upon the hotel, and everyone seems to be winding down. His little bartender-guy silently cleans bottles, Charlie and her girlfriend sit opposite of me, chatting quietly but seemingly having that conversation coming to a close within just a few sentences, with other residents or members no where in my vicinity; it all feels… quiet—somber, solitary, and almost… uneasy, but… I wouldn’t say it’s unenjoyable.
Of course Alastor would only now be in the public spaces—with practically no one around, and even that ‘practically no one’ actively diminishing—instead of just… doing his usual, creepily watching from the hallway-loft-thing overlooking it. But, curiously enough, Alastor does not go to interact with Charlie, nor her girlfriend, nor even me—he sits at the bar, crossing his legs and leaning against the counter, his chin resting atop his palm. He begins to say, with his usual manufactured, but annoyingly perfect composure in the bartender’s direction, “Make it harder a whiskey than usual, will you, Husker?” He grumbles something in agreement.
My eyes flicker with curiosity—I hate Alastor—always have, always will, but… something about his presence draws me in. …I just want to annoy him, I’m sure, but that seems… too enticing for comfort.
Whatever. It’s not a big deal.
I bring myself to my feet, and saunter up behind him, conjuring a smirk I didn’t even know I had subconsciously felt the need to create before he sees me and I say, “Drinking away your worries alone, huh, Bambi~?” My gaze flickers between his face, and the glass he’s tracing the rim of, already half-empty.
He turns his head to look at me, eyes narrowing and expression hardening. He speaks, his voice sharp—defensive, but not in a way too seemingly nonchalant, “I’ll have you know I enjoy drinking alone.” He takes a languid swig of his glass, before setting down on the countertop, the glass audible against the sealed, wooden surface, as Husk takes it to refill.
I lean closer, deliberately attempting to get on his nerves, saying, “Oh, if that’s the case, then surely you wouldn’t mind if little, ol’ me joined ya’~” A teasing, aggravating smirk crosses my lips as I stand there.
His gaze hardens, and grip on the glass tightens, before he simply… exhales, maintaining his temper with me better than I’m used to him doing. “Hmmmm… well, I’m the host of the hotel, and in a public space of it, no less—I suppose it’d be improper not to accept,” he responds, his voice softer and rougher than I expected of him, but clearly not devoid of temperament. He takes a swig of his refilled beverage.
I sit down on the stool beside his, facing him, leaning on the bar-countertop to my side. “A piña colada please, kitty-guy~” I say to the bartender, to which he briskly, but gruffly corrects, “It’s Husk.” ‘Husk’ begins preparing it, and I just… observe. The green, neon lights reflect upon the glass and ingredients being poured in it, before Husk slides the drink towards me, a drop spilling atop the bar from the momentum.
A certain, unavoidable silence further falls upon the room—Charlie and her girlfriend go upstairs—Husk cleans dirty bottles and cups, the glass squeaking slightly against the rag—Alastor and I just… drink. I can’t help but feel the need to fill the silence, the quiet air is tense, yet slowly softening under the drinks we share.
After a couple minutes, I find myself unable to tear my mind away from what he said earlier—‘a whiskey harder than usual’—after being gone from the hotel for some time, too. I know it’s my fault he had left, and therefore why he stayed away for a couple weeks, but…—even if it pains me to admit it in my own mind—I can’t help but feel concern and compassion for him.
I manage to speak up, as I watch him turn away to be handed his fourth whiskey, “Soooo… a ‘harder whiskey than your usual’, huh? Got somethin’ on your mind, Bambi~?” I take sip of my drink, before placing it down, my attention drawing to him, and solely him, as I avidly await the due response.
”And what if I do, ‘your majesty’? Almost seems like you’re… concerned for me now?~ Here I thought you still hated sinners~” he teases, though it feels almost absent of animosity compared to our usual spats—mockery, sure, but now, with my first time seeing him not sober, he seems more… playful, and lighthearted—not so filled with the usual hate and temperament I’m used to him displaying. He looks at me—not with contempt, or even contemplation, but exhibiting… a certain friendliness and charm I’m not used to, much less on him.
I down the rest of my current drink, before pausing, feeling almost defensive, or… flustered. I know I should think before I speak, but my mouth moves on its own, as I say, almost… nervous under his tender gaze, “I guess I’ve grown fond of some…” before adding on after the fact, “This little hotel project of Charlie’s contributed to it, I’m sure.”
I’m handed another glass, and sip it as I listen for the upcoming response, “Hmmm… how did I contribute to that? Not that I assume I affected it positively, simply… how did my presence affect those beliefs, Luci? I’m curious~” his voice slurs, almost imperceptibly, yet, despite his inebriation, he manages to carry himself and his words with a certain intelligence and thought I can’t help but admire. He tilts his head, and watches with interest for my response, his ears twitching slightly, and that damn grin just as wide as ever.
I look away, just for a moment, almost to search within myself for the answer—to focus on my thoughts and emotions for once instead of the audience I’m always so painfully aware of. That moment doesn’t last long, as I look back to him after a mere second, saying, a smile tugging involuntarily at the corners of my lips, “That’s… a bit of a loaded question; I hate you, and you’re… creepy—a sadistic, mysterious, confusing weirdo, who seems to always be plotting against me, but…” I take another swig of my drink before continuing, “You seem to genuinely care about Charlie, and Niffty, and… kinda this whole hotel? I know it might be some manipulation, or display or… whatever, but, sometimes a part of me can’t help but think that… you’re still human, y’know? Well, a human soul at least. …to my knowledge.”
My words feel as though they flow out unwillingly, as if scared of a lull in the conversation, or maybe just… scared of saying the wrong thing, and constantly feeling the need to correct—to nervously attempt at a better impression, even though I know I’m simply making it worse. I press my thumb into the rim of my glass, as my grip on it tightens. He just… looks at me, his gaze taunting me with how… understanding he looks—how he seems as though he’s mentally filing away the information—silent, and just letting me scramble and monologue.
He lets out a simple “Mhmm.” The lack of feedback makes my mind race with uncertainty, and forces me to reflect upon myself, when I usually so desperately try to avoid that. My heart’s pace matches that of my brain, and my eyes can’t help but focus in on the little details of him—on the way his hair falls over his face—on the way his monocle catches the light—on every twitch and micro-movement of his ears—on the way his expression and eyes make me feel like he can tell exactly what I’m thinking, and somehow isn’t even judging me for it.
I pick up my glass, and chug it, trying to distract myself—to get these damn thoughts out of my head. He just chuckles, saying in that same, tantalizingly mocking yet caring, attractive tone, “Having a rough time as well, hmm?~” He pats my back, the act demeaning, yet… comforting—if I didn’t know better, I’d say it’s… affectionate.
I just sit there, letting him touch me, trying to convince myself that these emotions aren’t what I think they are—that I’m not catching feelings for the radio demon, even when drunk—that these drunken stirrings will fade just as quickly as they risen, and I don’t have to worry about how this complicates things. My vision begins to drag—delay—blur at my movements, as I turn to face him, and he begins to have that same, inebriated sway to him as well, finally managing to half-heartedly mutter in slurred words, “Shut it, Bambi…”
”Make me~” he retorts, light-hearted, and so, annoyingly alluring. His hand moves to rest upon my shoulder, the sensation foreign in a way unthinkably flustering, his touch radiating warmth from under the smooth fabric of his glove, as he continues to drink with the other hand.
His touch makes me feel so disoriented, yet so reassured—so comfortable. Drinks reach their last drop, barely able to sink down the glass onto our tongues, time upon time, and with them, we become more at ease—more friendly—less recollecting; memory, and sense begin to fade away, carrying with it my perception of the night.
It all goes dark, and seemingly the very next moment, my eyes heavily waft to an open, and a sharp pang of pain hits my temple, as I lay there in my bed, tangled in the sheets, with only bits and pieces of the night prior discovering my conscious.
While I may not be able to recall quite right, and the memory of the night is just a big, fuzzy blur, one thing is clear—I felt things for him. I’m a married man, and he’s a manipulative, creepy psycho; I can’t seriously adore him like that, can I? I can’t—I shouldn’t.
But, I’m not the judge of that—I can’t help but feel my heart flutter and quicken as I try to piece together the night—as I start to remember the ways he looked at me, and talked to me as if I wasn’t an enemy, or rival, but… a friend—looking at me as if I’m someone who’s accompaniment makes him find admiration and comfort within himself.
It’s maddening.
Eventually, I find the courage to steel my nerves, and leave my room. The door creaks as I open it, and wander into the hallway now encasing me in its overbearing, red walls. I can hear the sound of discussion, and sinners bustling about, from downstairs. I proceed into the space overlooking it—onto the loft-like space with stairs leading down to the main room.
My gaze scans the area below—at the people entering and leaving—at my daughter talking excitedly to her girlfriend who’s attempting to greet the guests—at the people I’ve neglected, be it family or citizens—at the people I’ve failed. But, when my vision leads across the room, it pans up to find a quiet, reciprocal gaze of another—Alastor.
He stands there, one arm on his staff, and the other behind his back. His gaze isn’t filled with its usual irritation, nor the humanity and soul it had last night, but rather… confusion—a complicated, nuanced feeling, unsure of itself by its very nature. He doesn’t give salutations, just… looking—trying to solve a puzzle he’s perplexed by, frustrated and incredulous at every turn.
The moment lingers, as we silently stare, before I just… scamper down the stairs, desperate for an escape from the situation.
I can feel his eyes on the back of my head, as I walk down, and out into the room, bumped into by a stranger, and trying to keep my hope, and composure, but my mind unbearably plagued by the thought of him, and fear of what those feelings implicate.
For a while, I stand there, unsure of what to do—of what to busy myself with—of what’d make feel like I’m not a freak show. But, I don’t seem to ever that conclusion, and my gaze keeps finding itself landing back on him. After a moment, I see him teleport away, intent in its manner; wherever he’s going, it clearly has him less unaffected than he always acts like he is.