Chapter Text
Well, this was a predicament Alastor had not expected to find himself in. All he’d done was ask his mother to repeat herself, he should have known this would happen. The sky was as black as ink through the windows as the moonlight filtered in. If he had to guess, Alastor would say it was around 3 in the morning based on the positioning of the moon. His chest expanded and contracted rapidly as he choked on the tears spilling from his eyes and down his usually rosy cheeks.
“NO! MAMA PLEASE I DIDN’T MEAN TO- I'M SORRY!” The little boy stumbled over his words, struggling to force them through the relentless tears that spilling down and soaking his cheeks. His voice came loud and shaky, partially because he was trembling so hard but also because his mama wasn't hearing his voice over her own.
The shadowy figure in the doorway continued to scream at him, calling him selfish and manipulative and just too difficult to want anymore. She continued towering over little Alastor, making him feel that much smaller than he already was. Alastor was attempting to unbuckle his suitcase, his small fingers shaking too badly to fiddle with the pieces of metal.
“Pack your shit Alastor. I'm sick to death of you! HOW COULD YOU SAY SUCH THINGS ABOUT YOUR OWN MOTHER?! I WANT YOU OUT OF THIS HOUSE! GO LIVE WITH YOUR FATHER BECAUSE I CANT FUCKING DEAL WITH YOU ANYMORE!!” The shadowed figure screamed
The loud bellowing seemed to rattle Alastor’s very bones, he felt frozen like a deer in headlights. Consequently he dropped his suitcase which clattered to the floor with a loud bang.
Alastor had never even met his father, having abandoned his mother and himself since before Alastor's birth. Would he be nice? Would he have been kind? Would he have been better than mama?
No. That was no way to think of this mother was it? But what had he said, really? That he hadn't heard what she'd said? He couldn't believe a simple “pardon?” had sparked all this. Actually, he could believe it.
Alastor was difficult to love, he knew that much. He knew that he was too loud and always said the wrong thing or spilled his drinks, it was natural for Mama to shout at him right? It was his fault. If he could just be better, if he wasn't such a terrible, wicked boy then maybe Mama would be happy. Alastor knew he made her miserable, it wasn't like she didn't constantly tell him so. Why was he blaming her? Perhaps if he wasn't so selfish and narcissistic.
Alastor’s chest hurt and his glasses had become blurry with tears as another loud sob bubbled from his chest. He tried to wipe his eyes and nose with his hand but his hand just came away wet, doing little to stem the flow of tears.
Why am I such a disappointment?… the 10 year old boy wondered to himself.
This was a frequent thought that plagued young Alastor but not one he had time to dwell on right now. His thoughts were a stream quicker than light itself, wondering how he could de-escalate this, wondering how he could convince mama to love him again, wondering why he had not just kept his mouth shut. The shadowy figure (His mama) cornered him in his room, Alastor squeaked in fear like a frightened fawn and scrambled backwards.his back hit the wall. The figure– his mother –raised her fist and Alastor braced for impact.
Alastor woke with a start, gasping and heaving. His fluffy red deer ears pinned flat to his head as his fingers threaded in those crimson locks, using the sharp sting that came from tugging on them to ground himself. The pain burst to life on his scalp, only marginally quieting the screaming of his mind and body.
It took the deer demon a moment to realise where he was and figure out his surroundings. He wasn't a little boy anymore. He wasn't in his childhood home. He was in the hollow of a large tree deep in the bayou portion of his room in the Hazbin Hotel.
The tree was very cosy, he’d lined it with soft blankets and red cushions. Red was his favourite colour after all, it was an angry colour he’d always thought and anger had always kept him safe. He’d even added fairy lights. Tight, cramped spaces made him feel safest, nobody could get him there. It always felt like he was hiding away somewhere private that was his and his alone. So much of his life (and afterlife) had him controlled by others but not here.
Stupid deer instincts... yes, that must be it. Alastor ignored the long history he’d had of loving small spaces: the way he used to hide under beds and in cupboards as a child, how he’d always taken pride in being able to fit in spaces others could not.
After all, Alastor was the Radio Demon– the most powerful sinner in Hell. Now he was free of Rosie's soul deal too. He had no other logical reason to enjoy hiding away. Alastor breathed out shakily, he was still trembling too. That dream…
Fuck, Alastor hasnt had a dream like that in a while; it was so vivid, it was as if he were actually there. Alastor breathed shakily, tugging harder at those red and black locks as he tried to get the pain to ground him. Throughout his life, Alastor had sought pain to both ground and punish himself. Sometimes, pain felt like his only tether to his body and honestly his sanity.
Truthfully, the man had thought such dreams trained out of himself by now. Alastor used to have dreams like that a lot when he’d first arrived in hell, flashbacks to when he was a 10-13 year old boy when his home life was… rocky. They’d been somewhat tricky to cope with at first, Alastor hadn't understood why such memories suddenly plagued him hell that hadn't been apparent in life.
It was probably a part of Hell’s punishment, Alastor had reasoned at the time. Those dreams had driven Alastor to smoke and drink much more frequently than he did nowadays but that hadn't been the thing that corrected such foolish behaviour. No.
In the 50s, right when Vox and himself had begun to get close, those dreams and stifling thoughts they'd stopped for some reason. Nights spent in bed with Vox by his side had been empty in a calm way, lulled to sleep by vox’s static and unique frequency unlike so many other nights when vox hadn't been there. Vox… he wasnt- it was surely a coincidence that alastor slept best in his presence.
Alastor chose to ignore the fact that his nights spent at Vee tower during his capture were some of the most restful since the 50s.
Suddenly, the demon released his hair from his grip and stood from the cosy nook, making his way to his dressing table. The short walk there was surprisingly pleasant, he felt the soft grass tickling his hooves and watched the gentle golden glow of the fireflies as they hovered about. Feeling like he could finally breathe, Alastor stopped to admire his handiwork, he'd really outdone himself on this portion of his room. It was soothing and gorgeous, truly. It reminded him of home.
Alastor grimaced, maybe he didn't want to be reminded of home after that dream. His hooves began moving once more.
With a blink, Alastor found himself at his destination. One look in the mirror told him he looked awful. His eyes were puffy and cheeks tear-stained, his hair looked messy and tangled from his tugging at it. Dragging a hand down his face he let his eyes scan the ornate wooden dresser. It was a marvelous piece of furniture if he did say so himself. The wood was mahogany with gold detailing around the handles and edges of the cabinets. It was something similar to what he wanted to have in life but never afforded himself.
On the top of the dresser sat several small glass bottles, mostly hair styling products and fragrances. Despite many rumours circling the Pride ring, Alastor enjoyed looking after his hygiene and took pride in smelling nice. Oftentimes he chose a woodsy pine fragrance, he’d always sought comfort in the outdoors. Outside, away from his house, Alastor would roam and just for a few hours be completely unburdened. Earthy, woodsy scents always brought that calm to him. At the other end of the dresser a 1950s Pill microphone sat just in front of a breathtakingly beautiful silver mirror.
The deer demon’s ears pinned flat to his skull and his heart felt as though it were in a vice. A single clawed fingertip delicately traced the shape of the silver microphone. It had been a gift from Vox, that incessantly chatty picture box loved showering Alastor with compliments and gifts. That microphone had been given to him after a particularly stressful period of back to back nightmares. A thoughtful gift from the picture box truly, Alastor's chest still warmed when he thought back to it.
“Hey Al, I was thinking… You’ve been pretty stressed recently with your death day coming up and i- well i wanted to give this to you” Vox held out the microphone to alastor. The deer demon noticed electricity zapping from one of his antennas to the other. The quiet music emanating from the record player seemed to fade into the background, it was some jazz classic if alastor did recall. Still, nothing ever seemed to shine brighter than Vox in a room.
“A microphone? Surely you must know I have my own microphones at my broadcast station. I assure you, they're far more adequate than any modern microphone you could give me.” Hed said, that vintage filter over his voice crackling and popping as his permanent grin shifted to something more sly and soft
“Haha i know, i know okay. I just meant that it's something to have that reminds you of me in case, y’know I'm not around to be there.” Vox’s old CRT screen tinged blue with a slight blush as his claws clinked against the back of that oh, so boxy head.
Alastor's face began to feel hot as he fiddled with his fingers. Nobody had ever made such a thoughtful gesture before, even if Alastor didn't need it. However, Vox wasn't wrong in that his presence did seem to stabilise everything and make these childish fits of his easier to cope with. How interesting, that a being as loud and erratic as his silly picture box was able to have such an effect on him.
“Well im-..” Alastor's eyes darted to his glass of whiskey on the sleek black coffee table, taking a quick sip. He placed it back down with a soft thud, next to Vox’s identical glass. The filter from his voice had been absent, as well as a warm feeling spreading in his chest. Was it the alcohol that had him feeling this way?? Now that alastor thought about it, he had been over at Vox’s place for a good few hours.
“Im certain I can find a place for it, even if it has no functional purpose. Perhaps a cupboard or drawer of some sort might suit it nicely” There, his radio filter had returned. The Radio Demon brushed his thumb lightly over the bottom part of the mic, his eyes softening however subtly. Though when his red eyes drifted to the other man, Alastor could swear he looked ever so slightly downcast.
Of course, everything good must end eventually, no use dwelling on the sentimentality of the past. It was a tale as old as time– a lesson Alastor had been taught over and over that had one thing cemented in his mind: Trust no-one because no-one is coming to save you. Attachment is weakness, especially in a place like hell. That was Alastor's mantra, always had been and Alastor had been in hell long before his death.
Thinking of vox, his signal hadn't been felt in a while. Alastor mused to himself. The media overlord often mindlessly broadcasted a signal only alastor could pick up on. In fact, nobody seems to have seen nor heard about the television overlord since his.. Tantrum. Alastor supposed that was the only logical way to describe it. What else would you call almost blowing up the whole of the pentagram and sobbing like an infant in front of all of hell? In Alastor's mind, Vox’s catastrophic failure was made all the more humiliating by his complete and total failure to breach the Pearly Gates.
Still, complete radio silence from vox for two whole months was uncharacteristic of the picture box and downright troubling.
Straightening his posture and turning his back to his dresser, Alastor decided it was time for a broadcast, that way he could maybe bait Vox out of hiding. First, he had to get ready.
This had to be perfect.