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Feelings are for wimps. That is Alastor’s philosophy. After all, emotions make one weak. They are nothing more than hindrances to his ultimate goal—that is to be the number one sinner in Hell. No, more than just the number one sinner. He wants to be the number one. Rivalling, or even surpassing, Lucifer himself. If he keeps it up, he might one day be on par with God Himself.
Ever since everyone came together to put an end to Vox’s reign of terror and destroy the world-ending cannon, or whatever Voxtek calls it, Alastor has been spending more time at the Hazbin Hotel. Not his favourite place, of course. He was only ordered to assist Charlie by his accursed handler. Whether she did it because she wanted to humiliate him, or because she has some ulterior motive, he does not know. No matter the reason, he resents her command, her polite request, as she put it.
Because if he never helped out, he’d never have met the object of his current consternation. That is to say, Hell’s one and only King: Lucifer Morningstar.
Alastor does not loathe him, per se. Lucifer has done nothing to warrant his ire. No, he is at most an annoyance. A pest, if you will. He may be powerful, but if there’s one thing that Hell’s confrontation with Vox told Alastor, it’s that Lucifer can’t touch sinners. Wouldn’t make any sense if he could just eradicate the very creatures meant to punish him for his treachery so many years ago. So, Alastor does not fear him, is the long and short of it.
Whilst Lucifer cannot cause him any grievous injury, that does not mean he is exempt from being a bothersome species of vermin. He and Alastor never got along. From the very moment they met, they’ve been nothing short of rivals. Each of them vying for Charlie’s affection—Lucifer because she’s his daughter and he’s got his fatherly love and pride, and Alastor because he’s only got chaos and schadenfreude on his mind.
Lucifer was meant to be nothing more than a fly buzzing around his head. Those sorts of houseflies that are unkillable but still serve to be a lifelong annoyance. So, Alastor has no reasonable explanation as to why he’s coughing up lilies, Lucifer’s favourite flowers. It’s no secret that they are his favourites, because they used to be Lilith’s favourites, and Charlie does not shut up about them.
Now, the initial stages were easy to conceal. A petal here, some pollen there. Alastor was alarmed at first, but figured that whatever ailment is afflicting him would go away after a while, so he hadn’t thought too much about it.
Unfortunately, it has not gone away. If anything, his condition has worsened. Now, it’s getting harder and harder to pretend that everything’s fine in front of the hotel dwellers. Vaggi is the first to notice that something’s up. Keen eyed of her, but Alastor brushes her off, and Vaggi does not care about him enough to comment further.
“It’s nothing to ruffle your feathers about,” he tells her in the same flippant tone he always uses. “There are other people you ought to be worrying more about. Oh, look, is that Charlie about to burn down the kitchen?”
Charlie was not, in fact, about to burn down the kitchen, as awful as her culinary skills are. However, all he really needs is those few distracting seconds to sink back into the shadows and emerge in his room. The moment he lands, a coughing fit explodes from his chest. White petals and sepals, a spray of pollen on the ground. Alastor gasps for breath, trying his best to ignore the splitting pain between his ribs, spreading through his body.
Anxiety wells up in him, just like the weight on his chest, piling up in his lungs. Breathing has gotten more difficult, as though he were suffering from asthma. His throat is itchy, begging for coughs to relieve himself of the discomfort. His initial assessment of his illness was optimistic, but now, he’s not so sure.
Even so, this is a moment of weakness. He’d much rather curl up and die a second death in his room than to let anyone see him in this dire state. Least of all Lucifer.
Ah, just thinking about Lucifer is enough for the pain to rise back up in his chest. He lets out a weak cough, the spasm throwing him off balance. He falls to his knees, one claw clutching at the front of his shirt as more flowers emerge from between his lips, white petals coated with splatters of blood.
“Preposterous,” Alastor utters, and he regrets speaking as soon as he did, because he just summoned another surge of coughs.
He manages to keep up his facade, hiding his incessant coughs behind the screams of his victims. Charlie makes a small quip about how violent Alastor’s gotten. Angel notices the stray white petals that Alastor accidentally leaves around the hotel. Lucifer seems to realise that he’s disappearing more and more often.
“So, what are you up to this time, sinner?” Lucifer asks in that same clipped tone of his, cornering Alastor in the hallway after one of Charlie’s bonding meetings.
“Nothing. Just the usual,” Alastor says with a dismissive wave. His throat acts up, and alarm bells ring in his mind. Not now, not now.
“Don’t you lie to me!” Lucifer slams his fist against the wall, pinning Alastor against it. Alastor stares down at him, who’s all narrowed eyes and reptilian scales peeking out around his jawline, running down his neck. “You’re clearly plotting something. Don’t think you can fool these eyes.”
Alastor swallows, tries to keep the petals from rising. He can’t let Lucifer know. Of all people, he can’t allow Lucifer to even get a hint of what is happening to him. His decline, his near inability to speak, as much as he likes hearing his own voice.
But his efforts come to naught when he spits out an entire flower into Lucifer’s face. For a moment, time stops. Alastor stares in abject horror, his hands instinctively slapping over his mouth. Lucifer brushes the white petals from his face, his ire evaporated, replaced entirely by bewilderment.
“Wait,” Lucifer says, and there it is. The concern that Alastor wanted to avoid so much. “Don’t tell me, this is…”
“It’s nothing!” Alastor half-screeches, his voice coming out high-pitched and funny. He doubles over, hacking out more flowers, more petals. Alarmed, Lucifer winds his arms around the convulsing Alastor as he decorates the floor with more lilies. Atrocious flowers. Never did anything good for him in his life. It’s also because of it that he’s ended up in this sorry state…
“It’s not nothing,” Lucifer huffs, and though he tries to sound nonchalant and chiding, there is no hiding the concern in his more hushed tone. “Come on, let’s get you back to your room.”
*
Alastor doesn’t remember the last time he felt so weak. Perhaps it was back when he was still alive, bleeding out after that gunshot wound to his head. He can still remember the cold of the night, the steady leak of warmth down to his hair, matting his curls to his scalp. His limbs slowly lost strength, to the point where he was practically immobile by the time he lost consciousness.
Lucifer’s been padding about his room, hemming and hawing about how messy Alastor’s place is, and why does he have a whole swamp in his room, and where does he keep the towels and the basin and where the hell is the sink? He ultimately returns with a wet towel, which he lays over Alastor’s forehead. Alastor hasn’t the energy to tell him that he doesn’t have a fever, and even if he did, human methods probably don't work. That said, Lucifer doesn’t know much about the human world. Perhaps this method relieves fever in this world as well?
“How are you feeling? Better? You can blink once for yes, and twice for no.”
Alastor blinks twice.
“Well, I have no idea what’s going on with you, but I’m going to try to figure something out. Whatever you’ve come down with, I’m sure there is a cure out there somewhere.”
Alastor wants so desperately to rebut with a smartass quip, but he cannot find it in him to summon the energy. Instead, he lets out a scratchy groan and he turns onto his side. The towel that Lucifer placed on his forehead slips off and onto the pillow.
How embarrassing it is for Lucifer to see him like this. Him, the Radio Demon. Him, who’s supposed to be feared far and wide. Not down in bed with an inexplicable illness. He’s supposed to be out there striking fear into the hearts of regular demons and sinners everywhere. Instead, the King of Hell is tending to his pathetic state like he would a child.
Or a lover, his mind unhelpfully provides. It’s as though the very notion of romance has consumed his thoughts lately, when he was completely indifferent to it before. Something tells him that his latest ailment has something to do with these absurd ideas, but Alastor doesn’t know exactly where the link lies.
“Sit tight, okay?” Lucifer says, carefully readjusting the wet towel on Alastor’s forehead, the cooling cloth hanging off his temple. Alastor pretends not to notice. “I’ll be back before you know it.”
With that, Lucifer disappears. Even with the calming notes of the flowing stream, the room is far too big, far too quiet. For someone who always craved silence and time alone, this caging sense of solitude frightens him. The shadows are darker, longer, sway more. His throat acts up, sending him into intense coughing fits. It’s remarkable, really, how he hasn’t started expelling more blood from his overworked lungs.
At some point, he wishes that he weren’t alone. At first, he figured that it was the problem of solitude, that anyone would do as long as he had company. But the thought of having Charlie, Vaggi, Husk, or God forbid, Angel, puts a dampener on his mood. Elevates his stress levels. Charlie is too joyful and tries to make everything sunshine and rainbows regardless of the context. Vaggi is too jaded to really be good company; they’d descend into awkward silence in just two lines, and that’s him being optimistic. Husk hates his guts. Angel is… well, Angel. The only person he can probably stomach being next to in this state is probably Niffty. But strange as it feels, Niffty is like a daughter to him, and he’d much rather keep his debilitation secret from her if at all possible.
That just leaves… Lucifer. It’s the weirdest feeling in the world, but Alastor doesn’t think he minds Lucifer’s presence as much as the others. For one, his reactions are predictable but also dramatic, so he’s fun to tease. He’s also pretty depressed at times, which makes him even more fun to rile up. Best of all, Lucifer can’t harm him, so he’s truly at Alastor’s mercy.
And Lucifer won’t ask invasive questions. He won’t pry into Alastor’s private life and demand that he get along with everyone else. He upholds boundaries better than the one encouraging them (ahem ahem, his daughter, ahem ahem). All in all, better company than the other hotel’s denizens.
Except Niffty, of course—
“Oh, hey, you actually stayed put.”
Speak of the literal Devil. Lucifer shuts the door, striding into his room like a regular human. Except he’s not. Just a human-shaped demonic snake thing. In his arms is a pile of books, their covers wreathed in a plethora of colours. Just looking at the sheer palette is making Alastor’s head hurt. In addition to his chest and lungs.
“Whoa, you’re not looking too good,” Lucifer says. He snaps his fingers, and a stool appears next to Alastor’s bed. Naturally, it is ornately decorated, jewels embedded around the rim of the seat. He plops onto its cushion, leaning back against Alastor’s cabinet. “I’m just gonna sit right here and read, okay? There might be something in these books that could help you. Meanwhile, you sleep tight. It might go away in the morning.”
This is a trick, Alastor thinks. There is no way the king is this nice to someone like him. Someone who is hell bent on destroying his daughter’s dreams and eradicating the hotel eventually. He’s probably waiting to strike when Alastor is at his weakest, which is, unfortunately, now. Alastor, doubling over every two minutes and spewing more and more petals onto the pillow and the bed. They vanish, though, the lilies, their disappearances often accompanied by snaps of fingers.
It may be Lucifer’s quiet humming, of a tune long forgotten by human ears, or it may be his very real presence next to him, but Alastor relaxes. It’s the sort of relaxing that he hasn’t enjoyed in ages. It’s the same feeling as being seated on his couch at home, a glass of wine in hand and a good book in the other. It would be a welcome bonus if it rained. The rhythmic pattering of raindrops against the roof calmed him. However, that little luxury has long since abandoned Alastor—it hardly rains in Hell, if it ever poured at all.
His eyelids get too heavy, his muscles too comfortable. He desperately fights the sensation—hasn’t felt this in the last eighty years. Yet the environment is too conducive, the constant rifling of pages akin to the serene tempo of rain against windows, the sense that nothing is going to happen to him whilst he is here, allows him to drop his guard for the first time in a while.
And so, under Lucifer’s watchful gaze, Alastor sleeps for the first time in ages.
*
When Alastor awakens, he’s understandably disoriented. First off, he wakes up to a series of coughs, as though he is repaying his debt from when he soundly slept. Secondly, he’s staring up at the ceiling, a featureless ceiling he never quite paid much attention to. Third, his room lacks the familiar smell of cigarette smoke mixed with the fresh scent of the bayou. Instead, it has been replaced by a fruity fragrance reminiscent of citrus.
The moment Alastor attempts to move, he’s accosted with another wave of coughs. This time, he spits out a whole flower—petals, stigma, anther, receptacles, and even the small nub of what must be a stalk. The lily flower peers up at him from where it’s landed on the blanket atop his legs.
This can’t be happening. This has never happened before. Not a whole flower. No wonder he woke up, because his breathing’s gotten even worse. Now, he’s sucking in lungfuls of air, hoping to relieve some of the ache that’s growing in his chest. It used to be a bother, but now it is a dull throb that refuses to go away.
“Alastor? Whoa, hey, are you okay?”
Alastor coughs out another flower, and then a few more petals. A pair of arms surround him, white skin tinged with black at the ends. Light reflects off the metallic gold band around his last finger. Seeing it sends a wave of ire through Alastor.
“Breathe,” Lucifer coos soothingly. Alastor wishes to sling a few insults at him—about his fervent attachment to Lilith, about how Charlie resents him for his absence, about him being vertically challenged, just anything—but he is unable to, his oral orifices stopping him clean in his tracks, erasing any train of thought that dared take root in his mind.
“Bambi, focus on my voice. Breathe, okay, breathe.”
It’s funny how the human mind is conditioned to focus on instructions. Lucifer told him to listen to his voice and to breathe, so Alastor does. He sucks in air, keeps his attention on Lucifer’s low tones that send foreign tingles down his spine, makes his hairs stand on end and his ears flick back to press flat against his crown. Serenity soon follows, a tranquil wave that washes over him like the gentle lap of foam against his ankles on the seashore.
When he finally regains his senses, the white lilies are gone. Lucifer’s hands around his wrists feel so solid, so real, grounding him. Lucifer’s face comes into view, his forehead furrowed and his eyes filled with worry. He’s close, far too close, doing such unspeakable things to Alastor’s poor heart. It thunders in his chest, and nausea curls in his belly.
Alastor barely finds the strength in him to whisper, “What are you doing?”
“Shit, you’re really burning up,” Lucifer hisses. “Okay, so, I managed to find something out about your illness. Turns out, I just needed to ask Charlie, and those books were useless, and…”
“Get to the damn point.”
“Okay, okay,” Lucifer says, and he springs away from Alastor, his hands held up. “So, it, uh… turns out you are experiencing an unrequited love. You like someone, but that someone probably doesn’t like you back.”
Alastor glares at him. “I don’t like people. Not in that way.”
“But that’s what Charlie said. It’s the Hanahaki Disease—”
“I’ve never heard of that disease before in my life.”
“New diseases have been discovered and cured while you were dead! You haven’t heard of tuberculosis, have you? That’s consumption to you!”
“I know what tuberculosis is, you cretin!”
That outburst has Alastor doubling over in a coughing fit again.
“So, tell me! Who is it that’s got your heart all hippity-hoppity?” Lucifer asks.
Alastor glares at him. “You are an embarrassment.”
“Stop dodging the question. Look, I’m trying to help you here. I don’t even know why. I mean, I should want you gone, because you’re clearly a horrible influence on Charlie, but…”
“But what?”
“Argh! I don’t know! Stop making this difficult! Look, do you know anyone whose favourite flower is the white lily? Like, Rosie or something?”
“As is evident from her name, Rosie is partial towards roses. Specifically ones the colour of blood. What does anyone’s favourite flower have to do with anything?”
“Well, as it turns out, you start coughing and spitting out the favourite flower of the person you love. Now, out with it, so we can make them love you and end this.”
Alastor narrows his eyes and dread claws at him from the inside. Because, this is not happening. This cannot be happening. The only person he knows who likes white lilies and he has constant interaction with is none other than the wily serpent before him. It is preposterous, it is utterly impossible. Just because his heart does what it wants doesn’t mean that his body gets to betray him like this.
“Okay, I know you’ve got a death wish—”
Alastor huffs. “At this point, death might be preferable.”
Lucifer frowns. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“The heart is a fickle thing. If these emotions go away…”
“It just might kill you before then—”
“Then let it!”
Lucifer falls silent. The room is quiet, echoing with Alastor’s outburst. Alastor’s chest hurts, his lungs hurt, and he’s not sure he can stand this constant pain that much longer. It feels like something growing within, clawing at his insides, threatening to tear its way through his ribs and skin.
“If that is the person I’m supposed to love,” Alastor says, his words trembling, “then death is preferable.”
Lucifer tilts his head. There is wariness in his expression now. “And who is this oh-so-terrible love interest you’ve fallen head over heels for?”
Should he tell him? What would Lucifer’s reaction be? Will he laugh in his face and tell Alastor to stop joking? Will he even believe that Alastor could harbour a hint of affection for him? Not that Alastor believes it himself, but there is no other explanation for all these inexplicable things happening to him, most of all this mysterious Hanahaki Disease that he has contracted.
“Okay, fine! If you don’t want to help yourself, consider yourself, uh, abandoned!” Lucifer sniffs, and then he pauses, wrought by a sudden onset of guilt. “Oh, wait, that didn’t come out right. I’m just gonna go and leave you alone because clearly you don’t want to—”
“It’s you!”
Those words tear from his throat before he even realises it. Alastor throws one arm over his eyes, to shut Lucifer out from his field of vision. He employs the childish tenet of: “If you can’t see it, it can’t see you.” If he waits long enough, then Lucifer would leave, wouldn’t he? How could anyone remain calm after hearing that? To be the object of affection for the Radio Demon, of all people. An aloof sinner with a penchant for unrestrained murder, who holds everyone in low regard, even the king of Hell himself. It’s a joke, really, to be the target of—
“Hey, you okay?” Lucifer says, his voice penetrating the tangle of thoughts raging in Alastor’s mind. “Do you wanna…”
“Why are you still here?” Alastor snarls, removing his arm from around his eyes and sitting bolt upright, nearly slamming his forehead into Lucifer’s chin. Lucifer is deft enough to dodge. “You should be disgusted! You should be running for your castle and locking yourself up in there.”
“Now, why would I do that? For the record, you’re not the only sinner who’s developed a crush on me. You’re not as special as you think you are.”
“You—”
“But,” Lucifer proclaims, holding up one finger, “you are the only sinner that I’ve bothered to care for like this.”
Alastor’s heart nearly stops at the admission. Lucifer’s not looking as sheepish as he sounds. Instead, he’s staring straight into Alastor’s eyes, which in itself is rather unnerving, but all Alastor can see is sincerity.
“I didn’t know what it meant. Or maybe I didn’t want to see, because it’s impossible to imagine a reality where you might feel the same. I mean, no offence, but you’re not the pinnacle of romance.”
Alastor doesn’t know whether or not to feel insulted.
“In any case,” Lucifer says, clapping his hands on Alastor’s shoulders. “Um, I suppose this might be what this is. I, uh, wanna get with you too. Does that make sense?”
Alastor’s brain is about to short-circuit, because he doesn’t think he heard Lucifer correctly. “That is the least romantic way in which you could have put that sentiment.”
“Oh, stop ruining the moment. Gimme an answer or die like the cur you are.”
Fuck it, Alastor thinks. In a moment of boldness, because he’s far too prideful to back down from a challenge, he seizes Lucifer’s collar and smashes their lips together like how he remembered it was described.
As it turns out, he knows next to nothing about kissing. Never had much interest in it. Never bothered to learn. There was no utility; it was just a lead-in into something more depraved. But he discards those notions as Lucifer guides him silently with his wealth of experience. However, the ugly green monster bubbling up in him forces him to grasp Lucifer’s upper arms in a vice grip.
When he finally regains his senses, and some time to breathe, Lucifer is on top of him, straddling him, face flushed as red as the circles on his cheeks. Alastor’s back is pressed against the soft linen, breaths stolen and ragged.
“Round two?” Lucifer asks, lowering himself so that he’s just hovering over Alastor, faces just inches from each other.
“Do your worst,” Alastor hisses, and this time, it’s Lucifer who closes the distance.
It’s quite a while later before either of them realises that Alastor’s no longer coughing up petals and pollen.