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Alastor slumped in his favorite chair by his unlit fireplace, head in his hands. Not for the first time this evening - hell, not even for the first time this hour - he sadly regarded his chair’s twin that sat vacant across from his own.
He missed Lucifer.
Alastor had always prided himself on how unbothered he was by his relative isolation. In both life and afterlife, he had had neither close friends nor caring family other than Maman. True, he had friends here in Hell. Rosie could certainly be considered a friend, as could Mimsy, irksome as she was. His relationship with Niffty was a bit harder to pin down, but could also pass as a friendship of sorts if one squinted at it hard enough.
Other than them, though? No. Acquaintances and foes, absolutely, but not friends. Even the other Hazbin residents and staff were kept strictly at arm’s length.
Then Lucifer had rammed his way into Alastor’s life, the pompous, cocky, egotistical little bastard.
They’d clashed from the moment they’d met. Lucifer had sneeringly dismissed Alastor as the bellhop, to which the demon had taken great exception.
He hated feeling inconsequential.
They had snarled at one another like angry dogs, hurling insults while Charlie wrung her hands and tried to intervene. They had even nearly come to blows during one of the admittedly peculiar song battles so common in Hell.
At least Mimsy was useful for something for a change.
After a month-long visit that ran on about three weeks and six days too long in Alastor’s opinion, the King of Hell had buggered off back to his palace and his stupid ducks. The demon was glad to be rid of the nuisance.
Then, Extermination Day had arrived, and Adam and his winged goon squad had attacked the hotel. Alastor had put up a good fight against the First Man, but was ultimately bested, sustaining a brutal injury in the process. He had retreated to the ruins of his radio tower to lick his wounds and figure out his next steps.
It was there that he realized for the first time how truly alone he was. He had no one to turn to. No one to empathize with him, or care for him as he healed. No one concerned with his well-being.
He was not only alone, but lonely.
He’d laid low for a few days before returning to the site of the hotel. To Alastor’s annoyance, the feathery little prick of an angel had returned at the eleventh hour, by all reports thoroughly stomping Adam for having the audacity to threaten his daughter. Lucifer had then dazzled everyone by showing off and aiding in rebuilding the hotel. With his assistance, a luxurious new Hazbin was erected in three days, complete with a new radio tower for the Radio Demon and a royal penthouse suite.
Days later, in the comfort of his new quarters, Alastor lay alone, dying of his injury.
Then, Lucifer showed up, saying he had been sent by Charlie for a wellness check.
Alastor believed that Maman had sent him an angel, if only a fallen one.
At first, angel and demon bickered even as said demon was on his second deathbed. When Lucifer realized how dire the situation truly was, however, he had abandoned his animosity toward Alastor, appointing himself healer, nurse, and caretaker. Not since he was a child had Alastor known such gentle, loving care. His existence on both sides of the veil was one of brutality, deception, and violence.
Being cared for was wonderful.
Concerned for Alastor’s safety and wanting to keep his debilitated state a secret from the Overlord’s enemies, Lucifer opted to stay with him for however long it took him to recover. He was a thorough caregiver, going so far as to sleep in Alastor’s bed with him so he’d be available should the demon need something in the night.
That first night, Alastor had awakened in terror from a nightmare about the battle with Adam. He lay silently in bed, willing himself not to break down from stress and exhaustion, but a soft whimper escaped him. Lucifer was immediately awake and alert. The angel gently touched Alastor’s shoulder, asking if everything was all right. “Fine,” he had sniffled.
Lucifer pulled him close into a warm embrace. Alastor had resisted the angel at first, not wanting to seem fragile or weak, but then, desperate for the comfort offered, buried his face against Lucifer’s neck and began to cry softly. The angel held him tightly, rubbing his back and stroking his hair, tenderly reassuring him that everything would be okay. “Let it out,” Lucifer had said. “I’m here for you. I’ve got you. Just let it all go.”
Alastor eventually cried himself to sleep in Lucifer’s arms.
In the morning, he woke to find himself still cradled against Lucifer’s chest, a soft wing wrapped around him. He’d been afraid to face the angel in daylight. His father had always told him that crying was shameful womanish behavior unbefitting a man, a lesson he had internalized until he could endure even the most vicious beatings without shedding a single tear. He was certain that Lucifer would shame him for his display of weakness. Anyone would, he thought.
Lucifer did not.
When the angel awoke, rumpled and still sleepy, he only asked how Alastor was feeling, smiling warmly at the demon.
Breathtaking…
As the days went on, they became close, spending hours talking at length in front of the fireplace. They’d realized that they in fact had a great deal in common, from a disdain for television to a love of books, food, and music. Lucifer was a natural storyteller. Enthralled, Alastor would listen to his lively tales about everything from historical events from the Devil’s perspective to the idiotic bureaucracy of Heaven. In turn, Lucifer would happily debate the merits of obscure jazz musicians, swap recipes, and try to convince the demon that modern music in the “Post-Al Era,” as he’d dubbed it, was worth experiencing. At night, they’d share the bed, Lucifer comforting Alastor when his terrible dreams woke him in the darkness.
Alastor hoped it would never end.
The day Lucifer deemed him fully recovered and no longer in need of support around the clock, Alastor felt as though his heart had been ripped from his chest. He had grown accustomed to Lucifer’s constant presence, and cherished his companionship. He loved falling asleep with the angel each night, and waking to see tousled golden curls and drowsy smiles every morning.
He was no longer lonely.
When Lucifer hugged him goodnight that evening, saying he’d see him at breakfast downstairs in the morning, Alastor wanted desperately to plead with the angel not to abandon him. Not to walk away from whatever it was they’d found.
Not to leave him alone.
The words wouldn’t come, though. Instead, he watched Lucifer’s portal dissolve, then sank down in his chair, tears welling in his eyes.
He wondered why he had been condemned to be alone for all eternity. Was this his punishment? His personal Hell? If he atoned for his sins well enough to satisfy whatever power assigned torments to sinners, would he escape the desolation of his afterlife?
He tried to tell himself that he had made friends with the loneliness before, and could do so again. That he liked to be alone.
He knew damned well he was lying to himself.
What other option did he have, though? None that he could see.
Over the next few weeks, he slowly reintegrated himself into day-to-day life at the hotel. By day, he pretended to be the cheery, joking, efficient manager the others had come to expect. He even managed to ignore the pangs he felt whenever he saw Lucifer.
At night, though, when he retired to his quarters, the mask fell as the loneliness threatened to overwhelm him. He’d sit in silence by the cold fireplace, looking at Lucifer’s chair and wishing he could somehow summon the little angel to him. In the chilly emptiness of his bed, he’d lie awake and stare at the ceiling.
He hated being alone. He missed Lucifer.
As he contemplated his life one evening, wondering where it had all gone wrong, he heard familiar footsteps out in the corridor of the hotel. The footsteps halted at his door, and someone knocked. Hardly daring to breathe for fear that he was dreaming and could wake up alone at any moment, Alastor opened the door.
Lucifer smiled up at him, proffering a bottle of his favorite rye. “I’ve missed you. Care for a drink?”
Perhaps he didn’t have to be lonely after all.