Chapter Text
The Hazbin Hotel was never silent, but that night, it was noisy in a way that was almost criminal. Even the lights seemed to scream.
Ridiculously large garlands covered the walls, lights blinked in clashing colors, and there were at least three Christmas trees scattered throughout the main lobby, each decorated according to a different “artistic vision.”
One of them had clearly been left to Niffty, which explained the excess of bows, cutlery hanging as ornaments, beetles and bugs, and a blood-stained angel on top that looked dangerously tilted.
Charlie Morningstar paced back and forth, far too excited even by her own standards, clutching a clipboard and smiling as if Christmas were a personal mission.
"Okay!" she said, clapping her hands. "Remember: happiness, unity, Christmas spirit! No threats, no evil pacts during the party, no drugs"—she shot a side glance at Cherry Bomb—"and please try not to traumatize the guests!"
Vaggie sighed, arms crossed, watching Husk grumble as he carried boxes of liquor.
"You do know this is Hell, right?" the bartender muttered.
"Exactly!" Charlie replied, beaming. "That’s why we have to try even harder!"
Alastor observed everything from a strategic spot in the lobby, leaning casually against one of the columns. He wore an old sweater, clearly out of fashion, but Charlie insisted it would look great on him—a typical Christmas sweater with a pattern of reindeer and bells that looked like it had survived at least three decades. The smile on his face was sharp, controlled—a smile of someone who found all this absolutely ridiculous… and yet, curiously tolerable.
"What a charming spectacle," he commented, his voice smooth as old velvet. "An excess of joy that’s almost… criminal."
"You could try looking less like you’re planning a festive massacre," Vox said, approaching from behind.
The contrast between them was obvious. Vox sported an impeccable, modern outfit, with subtle red and green accents—elegant, calculated, perfectly aligned with the idea of “corporate Christmas.” His digital eyes flickered with clear sincerity, transmitting nothing at all. Tonight wasn’t for any audience, it was just for him.
Alastor tilted his head slightly, without turning around.
"My dear, you wound me. If I were planning such a thing, at least there would be music."
Vox made a low sound, almost a laugh, and stopped beside him—far too close to be casual.
They were no longer enemies.
That, in itself, was still strange to half of Hell.
After Alastor’s defeat—an event many had never imagined witnessing—the agreement with Vox had become inevitable. What no one foresaw was what came after. With Vox’s irreversible decline, a contract had been renegotiated.
The rules were rewritten. The rivalry, which Alastor believed would never end—and that in no time he would finish using everything he needed from Vox—slowly became something more dangerous: understanding.
Not salvation, just understanding.
Over time, what began as constant vigilance turned into presence. Vox’s cold resentment found no resistance in Alastor’s lack of refusal, but in his conscious choice to stay. And, against all odds, they built something solid. Exclusive. Real.
"You’re… behaving," Vox remarked, watching Alastor with careful attention. "Charlie must be proud."
"I’m simply respecting the spirit of the occasion," Alastor replied. "After all, I don’t want trouble with anyone… today."
Charlie passed by at that moment, practically vibrating.
"Alastor! Vox! You’re early!" she greeted Vox. "Are you having fun?"
"Immensely," said Alastor, his smile unchanged.
Vox nodded. "Everything’s… very well organized, Charlie."
She smiled even wider.
"Thank you! Oh, and later we’ll have a gift exchange and Christmas karaoke!"
Alastor raised an eyebrow.
"Fascinating."
As the night went on, the joyful chaos turned into something calmer. Some guests retired. Husk disappeared with a terribly drunk Angel in his arms. Niffty stayed up purely out of stubbornness, until Baxter finally convinced her to sleep, which made Alastor frown slightly.
The lights stayed on, but the volume lowered.
It was then that Vox approached Alastor again—not as a guest, nor as a business ally, but as someone who knew exactly which boundaries he could cross.
Vox’s hand slid to Alastor’s waist—firm, possessive, yet not rough. An intimacy too much for the public, but perfectly natural between them.
"You’ve lasted quite a while," Vox murmured, his voice low and close to Alastor’s ear.
Alastor leaned subtly into the touch, as if merely tired—though both knew it was a conscious concession.
"I’m glad to meet expectations," he replied, his tone too soft to be mere irony.
Vox tightened his hold, guiding Alastor away from the center of the lobby toward one of the dimmer hallways. Alastor offered minimal resistance, almost theatrical, just enough to keep the game alive.
The far corner of the lobby was bathed in softer, golden light, reflected by the garlands Charlie insisted on hanging even in the least used corridors. The sounds of the party were muffled there, distant enough to seem like another reality.
Vox kept his hand at Alastor’s waist, steady, as if that was the only anchor needed. There was no rush. No performative urgency. Only the quiet certainty that Alastor was going nowhere.
"You know," Vox said in a low voice, much too close to his ear, "Charlie put decorations even where they weren’t needed."
Alastor let out a short, elegant laugh.
"The young lady is… enthusiastic."
Alastor turned to face him.
For a moment, the sharp smile softened. His eyes shone with something few had the privilege to see—something dangerously close to tenderness.
"You like this," Alastor said, with no accusation. "You like to lead when I choose to let you."
"And you like to let me," Vox answered without hesitation.
The silence between them was comfortable. Heavy, but stable.
Vox tilted his head, his bright eyes tracing the space between them. Then he reached into his jacket, as if adjusting something casually—and drew out a small sprig of mistletoe, obviously left there by some hand overly dedicated to Christmas spirit.
He held the mistletoe up between them.
"Look at that," he murmured. "Seems we’re officially victims of Christmas."
Alastor raised his brows, all theatrical.
"What an awkward situation," he commented, though he didn’t step back.
Vox moved closer. The space between them was now symbolic, almost nonexistent. His voice dropped lower, laden with something that didn’t need a name.
"Rules are rules."
Vox’s hand slid up from Alastor’s waist to his slender back, pressing him gently against the wall—not with force, but as a confirmation. Alastor allowed it, leaning in slightly, his sharp smile softening to something almost… domestic.
When Vox leaned in to kiss him, there was no hesitation.
The kiss was not rushed. It wasn’t hungry. It was deep, assured, full of intention. Vox kissed like someone already conquered, someone who had nothing to prove—only to enjoy and feel that moment.
Alastor responded with equal awareness, his fingers touching Vox’s jacket briefly, as if testing the reality of it. The world around them felt far too distant to matter.
When they separated, Vox kept his forehead against Alastor’s, breathing slowly, as if collecting himself.
"You look ridiculously good in this," he murmured in Alastor’s ear, his voice low, almost reverent.
"This sweater… is criminal."
"Criminally sexy."
Alastor smiled—a smile that almost looked like happiness, intimate.
"Well, I’m honored."
Vox let out a low sound, almost a muffled laugh, and drew even closer, lips brushing the curve of Alastor’s ear.
"But I can’t wait to take it off you," he added, his voice firm, full of promise, not haste.
Alastor closed his eyes for just a moment—long enough to betray the effect. When he opened them, something luminous shone there, dangerously close to tenderness he rarely allowed to show.
"Always so direct," he commented, soft.
"Only with you," Vox replied without hesitation.
He drew back just enough to look at him. His eyes softened, as if all that intensity was focused on a single person.
There, in the forgotten corner of an overly cheerful party, Vox looked… devastated. Not lost, not weak, but completely taken. Every controlled gesture, every low word, carried the undeniable truth of someone who no longer knew—nor wanted—to separate partnership from affection.
Vox’s hand slid once more to Alastor’s waist, resting there as if it was the most natural place in the world.
"Let’s go before Charlie calls us up to sing," he said.
Alastor let out a soft laugh.
"A genuine threat."
"Merry Christmas, Al," Vox said at last.
The radio demon inclined his head, genuinely.
"Merry Christmas, dear."
Perhaps not everyone in Hell could be saved.
But that night, among garish lights and unlikely lovers, something had, if only a little, been redeemed.
And for Christmas in Hell, that was already a considerable miracle.
Together, still too close to be just two simple business partners, they returned slowly to the light, leaving behind the forgotten mistletoe—where everything had been said without needing to be spoken.