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You had always struggled with feeling like you were enough. When you were still alive, others always seemed ahead, always a little better than whatever you could conjure up.
You never felt like you were anything more than average. Ordinary, run of the mill, mediocre.
And it was surely your biggest insecurity.
You never thought it would matter in the long run, but you constantly found the cracks of self-deprecation bleeding into your otherwise clear waters. Comparison truly was the greatest killer.
In your schooling years as well as your career, you could never not compare yourself.
Others thoughts about you ran your life, their feedback – although often grating and doing more harm than good – you took to heart. You took everything to heart. Your life was controlled by how others saw you.
Your own words never hitting the mark that a compliment from someone else seemed to hit every time.
But those compliments were never long lived, they usually dissipated after a day or two, and that high you’d feel would once again melt into thoughts of not being good enough, never enough, mediocre.
As you sipped your iced tea that Alastor had so graciously made for you and sat in one of two chairs in his room that faced a cozy fireplace framed by bookcases and other Alastor-esque decorations you never bothered to fully admire. you stared into the fireplace in front of you both. Your own emotions rolling themselves into a snowball that only grew bigger and bigger the longer you ruminated.
You enjoyed your little moments with Alastor. You had somewhat of a routine with the radio demon. You’d keep him company as he yapped his head off about God knows what and he got entertainment if you decided to open your own mouth. Which, with how much he seemed to talk, wasn’t very often.
But these thoughts, these thoughts of how you were on the topside, and even now; how much others’ opinions seemed to affect you and how your own feelings on being average hurt so goddamn much. They were unbearable. And who better to spill your guts to than the most emotionally constipated sinner in all of the pride ring.
You drag your eyes away from the green flame that seemed to sizzle your corneas back to the demon across from you, he was talking about something. A topic you’d blocked out for a while as his voice dulled into white noise in the background. You stared at him blankly as he took another sip from his bitter black coffee in that stupid mug of his.
“Hey Alastor,” you started, taking advantage of the break in his own spiel which you’re sure would have gone on for another 2 hours. His half-lidded eyes catch your own as his close-lipped grin stretches into his usual smug smirk. Not bothering to check whether he was finished talking or to even reply to his words, you started talking. “Have you ever felt like you were like, super average?”
He stared at you like you’d grown another head. In hindsight, you realized the question was a dumb one to ask. Alastor was ridiculously up himself, the thought of him having some sort of deep rooted hatred for himself was hard to believe. Confirming your thoughts he barks out a laugh.
He wipes an imaginary tear from his eye as he repositions his monocle. His gaze made you feel small, like you were asking such a stupid question he couldn’t tell if you were joking or not.
“With how much time you spend around me dear, you don’t seem to know me very well.” He smiles, laughter present in his tone as he takes in your scowl with a pleased expression.
You choose to ignore his response, “well I do. A lot actually.”
He blinks thoughtfully, surprisingly remaining quiet as you continue on.
“I always feel like I’m never enough, like I’m mediocre. No matter how many people tell me the opposite.” You sigh, wrapping your hands around your cup like it was a lifeline. The comfort of having something in your hands to avoid fidgeting under his scrutinizing eyes.
“I’m afraid I don’t follow." he pauses "have you considered the fact that relying on others thoughts so heavily is never going to be enough?” his tone was softer than usual, not comforting but also not infantilizing. You were surprised he was holding a conversation without any asshole-y comments.
“Well obviously,” you reply, perhaps a little too bluntly as Alastor’s eyes narrow. “But it’s like human nature to rely on others, right? we’re sociable creatures, it’s instinctual to want to feel worthy, to feel appreciated. To be seen…” you trail off, swallowing down the lump in your throat with a sip of your drink.
Alastor just scoffs, taking another sip as well before looking thoughtfully into his cup as he replies. “I don’t care what others think. I don’t need another’s words to know I’ve done a job well done. To do things for others appeasement, to seek their thoughts is weak. You should never bow your head to the enemy”
You sit quietly, drinking in his words as you run them through the cogs of your brain. The thought that he was so confident in himself that he never sought commendation made you envious.
To never rely on others to feel good about yourself was such a far away thought it seemed almost impossible.
You sit back into the chair, crossing one leg over the other and you take in the radio demon’s company.
“Why did you become a radio host?” you ask, Alastor quirks upwards, his grin stretching at an opportunity to talk about himself.
“Oh well my dear- “
“And why do you hate the vees so much?” you cut him off, holding your contact with his crimson gaze as his smile falters slightly, a much heavier air seemed to hover over the both of you.
“Why did you even come to the hotel in the first place?”
Alastor seems taken aback at your flooding questions, personal questions that you’re sure he'd slaughter anyone else for even pondering to ask. His posture stiff as he stares, his mind obviously reeling to read what the meaning behind your asks truly was.
“I think you’re lonely, at least lonelier than you let on,” you continue after the pause, letting your words simmer in his presence.
“you’ll never admit it though, you’re too stupidly proud,” also so far up your ass you could probably kiss yourself from the inside out you add internally, not exactly wanting to end up as another number under his belt. “you’ve never had company that you haven’t held at arm’s length.”
The longer you sit on your own words in the silence that follows your little rant, the more it makes sense to you. Alastor is probably so reliant on himself because he has been let down, underappreciated and dismissed. He could not be appreciated quietly, so he made himself loud. You consider his reputation. The radio demon. Infamous across the pride ring. You’re sure there’s a number of sinners that would kill to have dirt on his name. Having close relationships could be dangerous for him.
His reliance on himself was a form of protection. A wall.
He could be broken down from the inside out if the wrong information got out. Vulnerability is fatal, especially for a demon of his caliber. His own image could be his undoing.
His confidence comes from the comfort of his own company, knowing how he is, the safety in knowing. The danger of the unknown is a bigger shadow than anyone cares to admit.
If you were being honest with yourself. if you were in his shoes, so comfortable in your own presence, and held the same power he welded. Able to play God with sinners souls and laugh at their suffering, you also wouldn’t care what others thought, you wouldn’t pay anyone a glance.
Your mental rabbit hole breaks from the sound of his staticky voice,
“I thought we were talking about how untalented you are?”
“Alright asshole.” You snap back with a sip from your drink. His only response being a playful chuckle.
As you sat with yourself for longer, as you stayed in his presence, you felt a new appreciation for Alastor. He had always come off as headstrong. To be so comfortable with yourself was admirable. Even if his was just an act. Acting took energy.
Your eyes travel back to meet his, an unfamiliar softness present in your expression. Something synonymous with adoration. As embarrassing as that was to admit to yourself. since you were so outright about how much you despised his company, you couldn’t help but admit that he was a good shoulder to lean on. Despite his refusal to comfort, or offer anything more than a snarky comment, his company was enjoyable. He was enjoyable.
He'd always been dismissive though. Never revealing too much of his hand at a time. Any talk of his past, his time on the topside – minus describing (in probably too much detail) about the murders he committed, his career in radio or his appreciation for good music – was always shut down quickly and firmly. He would divert the conversation elsewhere, turn the tables and talk his way out of a situation that didn’t benefit him.
He had a silver tongue and an impressive talent for knowing how to use it.
The little drink date ended not long after you had both sat in the silence of your earlier comments. You had probably pissed him off, but there’s no point in dwelling. If he was truly that annoyed at you, he would just kick you out, or worse.
The next time you walked to his door and the next time he opened the door just as you were about to knock as he usually did. And as you both took your seats in front of the cornea scalding fire framed by bookcases and other Alastor-esque decorations across from each other.
His chair was scooted a little closer, and his eyes were a little gentler.