Chapter Text
In New Orleans, amid the smell of the swamp and the sound of jazz, many residents whispered among themselves about the city's new ordinance.
Officially it was called 'protection of public morals', but everyone knew what the truth was. People of color who could not prove they were married to anyone, whether a white resident of the city or not, were to leave the city within the next month. And the only salvation was to have a family, at least a spouse, no matter if it was white or not. Of course, marrying a white person gave you extra points, but both options allowed you to stay in the city, so it wasn't necessary.
So in practice, it meant one thing: you either find a spouse or you disappear. Sometimes literally.
For many, such a task seemed impossible. Mixed marriages were banned in almost the entire state of Louisiana, but in this one specific and absurd case, the authorities turned a blind eye. Because it was more important to clean the streets than to obey the law, an irony so great that it struck from afar.
You were there too. But not on the side of the people who had the problem, no. You were white, your skin was pale as snow. Ironic, you might say, especially since your close friend was a man of color.
Because your skin meant privilege. A privilege you hated.
Even though you used it for good purposes, you taught poor children to read and write, regardless of the color of their skin, you helped women fill out job applications, and you dreamed of the days when no woman would have to marry to feel safe, and everyone would be treated equally regardless of skin color.
Of course, there were quite a few people who opposed your practices, treating your behavior as heresy, and you learned that it was better not to speak out about certain views.
You have been concerned about this problem ever since you heard about the new regulation. And it worried you even more because your friend was just as affected by it as other Creoles.
Alastor Hartfelt, after all, was probably the most recognizable voice on local radio. Or maybe even in the entire state. A smiling host greeting listeners in the morning who were listening to him while drinking their morning coffee, or evening shows where he could sell anything he wanted, everything from toothpaste to the idea of progress. A Creole, with dark hair, eyes like black coffee and a smile so charming that he delighted everyone. He was funny, elegant and gallant.
But to you he was just Alastor.
You met three years earlier and weren't very close, especially at the beginning. You could quite easily see his dislike for white people, although this dislike was directed mainly at men. You weren't discouraged by his approach though, you eagerly approached him whenever you could, even though it earned you stares from people. It was only when you said something about appreciation showing that class has nothing to do with skin color that you earned a raised eyebrow from him. He probably thought you were either crazy or naive. But he invited you for tea anyway.
And so it remained.
You liked him very quickly, but not for his gallantry or elegance, but rather for his stupid jokes or his random attempts to drag you into a dance. You cheered him on and tried to help him as much as you could whenever the station tried to limit his airtime (because listeners from higher classes might feel uncomfortable), and he listened to your tirades about women's rights and from time to time he would make a comment that hit the nail on the head.
And the rumors about 'cleaning up the city' kept you awake, thinking about every resident whose skin was anything other than porcelain white. Thinking about Alastor.
…Meanwhile, Alastor entered the district where he knew the club was located. He walked in with a smile on his face as always, a proud step, but in a rare moment of not looking down on everyone. The bar was deep in the basement of an old tenement house, where jazz was pounding and alcohol flowed freely. One of those places where nobody had to pretend.
Several familiar faces were already sitting at the main table. Several orchestra musicians, one trumpet player, and one singer who had a better voice than most of the professional ones. There were already five glasses on the table, a deck of cards and a half-full bottle.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” Alastor called out loudly as usual, drawing the attention of everyone in the bar, “Your favorite radio voice arrives with a delay, but with new gossip!”
There was laughter and greetings, someone pulled out a chair for him, someone else put down a glass and poured alcohol. Alastor immediately took a seat and took a sip, stretching his long legs.
For the first hour they talked about everything and nothing, about the new music album, that the station was threatening to cut his broadcasting hours again. And Alastor, as usual, turned everything into a joke.
“There is nothing to worry about, my dears!” he commented in his tone as if he was still broadcasting live, always a showman at heart, “I will always find a way to host a show, no matter where I am!”
But eventually, sometime after the second bottle had been completely emptied, the topic finally turned to the inevitable.
One of them leaned over and cleared his throat, sighing at the same time,
“Alright, y’all. How long do we have left, anyway? Two, three weeks?”
The singer sighed in an equally resigned voice,
“I've already signed the papers with that one actor from down the street. Pretendin’ for the city hall.”
“Me too.” someone added, but more cheerfully, “Got me a white widow. Funny how that works, ain’t it?”
A few people chuckled.
And then everyone looked at Alastor.
“And you, Al?” one of them asked straight out, “You got somebody lined up, or you still think that rules don’t apply to you?”
Alastor just raised his glass in a toast, as if he was making it for all those gathered who had decided to waste their lives.
“Marriage? Me? Oh, I’m far above such earthly institutions. A ring on my finger would be like a muzzle on a wolf!” He laughed as if he was telling a particularly funny joke,
The singer rolled her eyes, “It isn’t about wantin’, Al. This about not endin’ up in a ditch outside town.”
“Or on a boat you didn’t buy a ticket for.”
Alastor took another sip.
“My friends, I’ve always managed just fine. Always. Maybe it’s ego, sure. But that ego keeps me on the air when others would’ve quit long ago.”
One of them, however, shook his head.
“Listen here, brother. We love you. But this time, ego ain’t gonna stop a mob. I saw the list yesterday. Your name’s at the top – too loud, too popular, too… inconvenient. One more month and you’re gone.”
Silence fell. Even the jazz on stage seemed quieter.
Alastor gritted his teeth.
The silence was suffocating even though the music was playing. Every sound seemed distant. Finally, Alastor set his glass down with a bang, then quickly leaned over and grabbed the bottle, just to drink straight from it.
“A wedding ring is a cage, and I am not some animal that can be locked up.”
“Stop bulshittin’, this isn't about the cage! This is about bein’ alive!”
“Exactly!” Another added, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, “I also found a widow, a teacher, and a pretty one at that!”
“So what, you think I'll be scared of some fucking list hanging somewhere like they want my head?” Alastor growled in annoyance, his dark hair falling messily over his forehead but he didn't care,
“It isn’t just any list! I saw your name with my own eyes, it's not my fault you like being the center of fuckin’ attention!” the man snorted at him, earning an irritated look from Alastor, “You've barely got a month. Most of us have already gotten to work, as you can see.”
The singer spoke again, trying to calm the crowd down.
“Al, honey, listen-”
“No, I won't listen.” Alastor took another sip from the bottle and then slammed it down on the table, “I don't bow, I don't hide. I don't-”
“You will die.” Someone finished, but Alastor wasn't even looking at them anymore, “You will die because you will be too proud to ask for help.”
Alastor froze, his eyes fixed on the bottle.
Then he took another sip before setting the bottle down, now empty, his eyes welling up. Was it from the alcohol or something else? He wasn't sure.
“Fuck.” His smile was still there, but it no longer reached his eyes, “Apparently I'll have to make a deal.”
Then he stood up unsteadily, leaning on the chair with one hand.
“Thanks for the drink. And for… that.”
“Hey, Al, wait-”
But he was already gone.
***
The night was humid and heavy as usual in New Orleans. Of course you were already asleep, even though you had trouble falling asleep at first, you were too exhausted from the whole day not to pass out. You were lying half-conscious in your small bedroom when you heard a sound from outside.
A pounding on the door, loud and persistent. More like someone was trying to force it open, which, especially at that late hour, scared you a bit at first. But then you heard a very familiar voice and suddenly all your fear vanished.
“Cheeer! Cher, darling, open the door!”
You sighed heavily and rolled your eyes, but got out of bed. You threw on your robe, turned on the light, and walked barefoot down the stairs toward the door.
You opened the door only the width of the chain.
And as you expected, Alastor was standing on the doorstep.
Or well, he wavered rather than stood. His bow tie was half-undone, his shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, and his face was a little darker, as if flushed. Her eyes shone unnaturally, her hair was scattered all over her head, curling tightly instead of being neatly arranged. And his smile? The smile was wider than usual, crooked, but still on his face.
“Darlin’!” He exclaimed joyfully as if he had just won the lottery, “My dearest, most wonderful, most... white!”
You snorted, rolling your eyes so hard it hurt.
“Alastor, damn it!” you hissed as you watched him take a step, trying to enter, but he stumbled and almost fell, “It's almost two in the morning and you're drunk as hell!”
“Drunk? Me?” he laughed in his radio voice, but it sounded more like a hiccup, “Just a little... relaxed. Listen, I have to tell you something. Very important.”
He leaned his forehead against the door, looking at you through the crack.
“Marry me.”
You blinked once. Twice.
“What did you say?”
“Marry me.” he repeated, trying to kneel, but only fell to his knees with a bang, “On paper, sure, but marry me! I... like you! And they want to throw me out. And you're de-delightful and wonderful…”
He tried to grab your hand through the crack but hit the door. His glasses were crooked on his nose, but he didn't adjust them.
“Alastor.” You sighed quietly, “You are drunk. You don't know what you're saying.”
“I know!” He said, “You know what happens if I don't find a wife! And I thought, I know you! Because you’re… a friend of mine.”
You wiped your face with one hand, your heart was breaking, but if he wanted to ask you for help, he could have at least come to you sober. You had no intention of talking to him about it when he was like this.
“Go home. We won't talk about it today.” You pursed your lips, “Sober up and think it over. When you're sober, we'll talk.”
“But-”
“No.”
You closed the door with a bang. You closed one lock, then another. And then you leaned your back against it, closing your eyes.
You heard a muffled "fuck" on the other end, then a muffled sigh and uneven footsteps. And then silence.
Then you lay down in bed and stared at the ceiling until you passed out again.
Because you knew he would come again. Because maybe he had an ego, but you knew he was even more afraid of going to someone and stooping to asking for help than of death.
***
The next day the whole city seemed a little quieter, as if the entire side that made the noise and music was suddenly suffering from a very painful hangover.
Alastor, on the other hand, stood in his bathroom in his own home, resting his hands on the edge of the sink and looking into the mirror as if he wanted to punch it. He was wearing a fresh shirt, a perfectly tied bow tie, and a vest. His hair was combed perfectly, his glasses sat neatly on his nose. He looked perfect as always, his smile in place, wide and charming.
Only the eyes, the eyes seemed different. Dark circles under them, tired, and... ashamed.
In his head he replayed the previous evening in fragments, the conversation in the bar, the memory of the list, the bottle in his hand, then kneeling on the threshold and the proposal.
“Marry me, my dearest, most wonderful, most white.”
He sighed loudly, having a rare moment when he felt like an idiot. He looked at his reflection as if he wanted to hit it.
“Well, brilliant, Al.” he said to himself, “Really brilliant. You ran into her drunk, knelt down and said shit.”
He closed his eyes. He tried to think of a way to fix his situation. Because what was he supposed to say now? Something dignified, something that didn't sound desperate. Something that didn't make him look like he was begging. Something that won't make her slam the door in his face again, this time forever.
Of course, the first option was to joke.
“My dear, last night the alcohol was talking through me, but today I'm renewing my offer!”
No, that would make me sound like a coward who backs down.
The second option was total honesty.
“You're right, I was drunk, but I really need you, not just for the paper.”
No, that would make them both uncomfortable... and it might scare her.
Option three? Coldness and distance as if nothing had happened.
“I came to finish yesterday's conversation in more civilized circumstances.”
But that wouldn't be true. Because something happened.
He ran his fingers through his hair. Eventually, however, he left the apartment, adjusting his clothes three times before he even took a step beyond the doorframe. He even bought flowers along the way! Just simple margaritas, nothing fancy, no roses. Something that matched her and her floral dress…
***
Alastor stood in front of your door for a good five minutes before he dared to knock, replaying every possible scenario in his head. He wasn't normally someone who overthought. But this situation required additional steps.
In his head he repeated every possible version of what he was about to say.
“I apologize for yesterday, it wasn't supposed to turn out this way.”
“I know it sounds absurd, but the situation is serious. You don't have to love me, just say yes on paper.”
Finally he knocked three times like a civilized man.
When you opened the door, you were exactly as he always saw you, in a floral dress, your hair slightly tousled, and a blush on your face.
“Good morning, my dear.” He spoke first, his voice shaking a bit, though he masked it with his usual verve, “Can I come in? I promise I'm sober! And I'm going to apologize. And then, well, offer again, properly this time.”
And you finally sighed, shaking your head in disbelief but letting him in.
“Come in, Al. But if you kneel again, I'll hit you over the head with a frying pan.”
He smiled, genuinely this time.
“It’s a deal then!”