Chapter Text
The winding streets of New Orleans were crowded with performers and floats of all kinds. Dazzling costumes and upbeat music carried the people forward as they walked. Mardi Gras had been a tradition for decades where people of all kinds could come together. Skies of blue faded into dark purple and murky grey as the night took hold.
Smoke blew from the man's lips as he motioned for the bartender to pour him another rye. You would think that the partygoers would be busy celebrating, but many had decided to head to their local speakeasy to get a drink. He always thought them contradictory, Christians. If the bible is to pardon drinking, why condemn the act of getting drunk? Why condemn anything at all if God is almighty and everything goes exactly to his will?
"All you do every year is sit around drinking. Why not spend the festival with a couple o' pals for once?" The bartender asked.
His eye twitched. "I best start looking for a new bar to frequent if you're going to pay this much attention to me."
The bartender sighed. A glass slid to him over the counter along with an exasperated sigh, telling him he was being cut off. He glared and downed the whiskey, tossing a few crumpled bills in the bartender's direction.
As he pulled the cigarette from his lips, he glanced back at the institution. He wondered what the place would look like bathed in orange flame, screams in every direction as he walked back to his cottage. But that wasn't real. Most of the time, he couldn't tell whether or not he was in the middle of a nightmare. Or a really fucked up dream.
Metal clattered to the floor in front of him, a young woman desperately looking around for the item. He bent down and picked it up. A silver brooch in the shape of a butterfly's wings, simple and elegant. If Alastor didn't pity the girl and her obviously apparent distress, he would have swiped it and sold it to the pawn shop for a reasonable price.
He held his hand out to the lady, brooch in tow. "This what you're lookin' for?"
The woman looked up at him with adoring eyes and thanked him profusely, fiddling with the pearls on her neck and batting her eyelashes. He had to bite back a gag. He knew many were attracted to him, but it became tiring after a while. All meant was to be polite, and people took it as an invitation.
As the lady leaned and spoke of not having anyone with her at her apartment, Alastor's smile sharpened. A kill would be nice right about now, wouldn't it?
Brooch in his pocket, wiping his hands with a handkerchief, he walked on the gravel road. The festival was still ongoing, music blasting in the distance.
Alastor stopped in his tracks as a short white man stepped into view. His hands shook, begging to reach out, but he forced them to stay at his sides.
The man looked back at him. Blond locks, rosy cheeks, and amber eyes seemed to burn into his mind like a lost memory.
"Hello, sir, did you need something from me?" The man spoke to Alastor in a soft voice.
Well, now he knew there was definitely something wrong with this guy. No person in this place would give someone like him the time of day, especially not one who, based on the pink silk suit and gold ring, was wealthy.
The radio host had always despised the rich. Hoarding money in their luxury homes while the public scavenges to make a living. Not to say he didn't understand the greed; he was well-versed in that area, but the way people turned a blind eye had always rubbed him the wrong way.
He cleared his throat, staring down at the man. "Apologies, I didn't mean to stare…you just seem familiar, that's all."
The man looked up at him with wide eyes, twisting the ring on his finger back and forth as if it grounded him to reality.
"I've been told that I'm memorable, yet your face is new." He mumbled, slow steps bringing him to Alastor.
The closer he got, the more apparent their height difference became. He was almost like a woman in stature, but he couldn't help but feel a heat radiating from him like hellfire.
He got impossibly close to Alastor, fingertips grazing his jawline and trailing down the buttons of his vest. The festival music seemed to drown in the tension between them. Brown and hazel eyes, that now seemed to glow almost gold, met with the same burning intensity.
The man patted his shoulder, a small smile on his face as his eyes flicked towards his lips, and then behind him like something was interesting. "Have a good night, Descartes."
Alastor turned his head to see the man walk away, maybe to stop him, maybe just to watch his figure retreat, but all he was met with was the cool air of the night.
His fingers trailed to his lips, feeling warm blood there.
In that moment, he knew the Devil was real.