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He found the body in the alley behind his Radio Tower.
Alastor had no idea how it had gotten there, but he had a mild idea as to who had put it there, displayed in all its macabre glory. The body had been decapitated, but it made little difference, since there was only one demon who had ichor so blue it veered toward neon. Only one demon he so intimately knew that the gills normally hidden, he could feel under his fingertips once he palpated the thin neck where wires spouted off like bizarre candy canes.
His gaze turned to the innards that spilled out like a buffet made just for him—only it wasn’t, as everyone knew the Radio Demon had no taste for sweets.
Chocolate, taffy, gummies, caramels, toffee—all manner of candies filled the familiar chest cavity to overflowing. Alastor reached in and rummaged with a clinical sort of detachment, finding sweets brimming the demon’s internal hollow instead of delicious viscera. Sucking his clawtips, Alastor noted that they still tasted metallic, still held that iron-rich tang he loved so much despite the sugary goodness that had replaced internal organs.
Oh, but it was so ironic, was it not, that his old friend had fallen victim to such a disease?
He’d heard about this, the plague currently running rampant across Hell. Demons of all origins were afflicted with such a laughable condition, one that had such a pathetic cure. Reciprocated affection. Answered emotion. Mutual understanding.
Love.
Disgusting.
The Radio Demon stepped over the body of his fallen comrade and made his way back to the hotel. Whistling as he twirled his cane, he wondered how he should tell his housemates of this new development in Hell’s hierarchy. Despite being confident that the power vacuum this new death had left behind would no doubt be filled within the day, it was still some sort of momentous event.
After all, it wasn’t every day an Overlord fell prey to matters of the heart.
Climbing the porch steps that led to the front door of the Hazbin Hotel, Alastor wondered briefly if Angel Dust would be home by now. To everyone’s surprise, including the Radio Demon’s own, the seductive spider had wormed his way into Alastor’s inner circle after a month of late-night talks at the bar. What had started as annoying jests turned into grudging curiosity that became lighthearted conversations that had evolved into deep introspections on both sides. Nowadays, Alastor looked forward to speaking with the arachnid demon whenever Angel managed to drag himself back to the hotel after hours of grueling sex work at the studio.
Heading straight to the bar, Alastor thought he’d wait for the delightful demon while chatting with his charming thrall.
“The usual, please, my good friend,” he said, tapping his knuckles on the oaken countertop.
Husk poured him a finger of amber liquid. “If you’re looking for Angel, he came back half an hour ago.”
Tilting his head in that unnerving ninety-degree angle he knew the chimera hated, Alastor widened his smile. “Now, why would I be looking for the fellow?”
Rolling his eyes, Husk began wiping down the length of the bar. “I said ‘if’, you asshole.”
He could terrorize Husker for that cheek alone, but his afternoon broadcast, as well as the surprise left on practically his doorstep, had left Alastor in a fabulous mood.
Downing his shot of rye, Alastor melted into the shadows only to reappear in front of a familiar door. The garish neon pink lights and hearts made Alastor snort wryly, lifting a hand to knock. His gaze swept across the photos taped to the surface, from the one with Charlie to the one with his thralls to the solo one of Fat Nuggets. Usually, the door would swing open by the time he finished studying the posted pictures, but this time, it surprisingly remained shut.
Only the clip-clop of tiny hooves informed him that someone—or something—was inside the room.
Scuffling noises of hooves against wood led Alastor to open the door of his own accord, the sound of the toilet flushing drawing his attention to the en suite. He watched as Angel Dust appeared, the spider’s faint smile at seeing the Radio Demon cuddling his pet hellpig feeling like a desert mirage. Alastor followed the arachnid demon to the garishly decorated bed on the western side of the room, perching precariously on one end while its owner flopped back amidst a mountain of heart-shaped pillows.
“You weren’t at the bar tonight.” What an astute yet clumsy observation. Alastor wanted to smack himself. “Long day?”
Angel smiled at him softly. “Yeah, Smiles. Were ya lookin’ fer me?” His voice sounded a bit gravelly and a little too hopeful for Alastor’s liking.
“You will not believe what happened this afternoon, my dear,” Alastor said, immediately changing the topic like the intelligent demon (cowardly deer) he was. “It seems like Hell has lost its Television Overlord.”
“Oh.” Angel Dust’s pretty duochrome eyes widened. “Ya mean…”
“Yes.” Alastor could not keep the relish out of his voice. He felt Fat Nuggets start to move around in his hold. “Decaptitated and eviscerated.”
Angel closed his eyes, rubbing at his throat. “I wonda who…”
“Perhaps it was his partner-in-crime,” Alastor mused, tapping a clawtip against his chin. He released the squirming hellpig, watching it cross the sheets to curl up against its owner’s chest. “That insipid moth must have lost all patience after seeing the bastard cough up all those disgusting sweets.”
“Ya mean… he was sick?” The spider appeared a little green, forcing Alastor to sit up.
“Are you all right, my dear?” He reached out, a clawed hand hovering a foot away.
He wouldn’t touch—couldn’t touch. Even if he wanted to, it wasn’t something that his nerves could handle. Angel Dust wouldn’t want him to dirty his pristine fur anyway—
Coughing.
Frame-shaking, loud as a cleaver's thump, pitiful coughing.
Alastor’s eyes widened as the arachnid demon retched helplessly, body seemingly too weak to run to the en suite. Instead of the nauseating mix of bile and stomach acid he expected, the mauve coverlet now held what appeared to be cane syrup if the scent was anything to go by. The thick, syrupy amber goo had flecks of dirt in it—that, upon closer inspection, turned out to be bits and pieces of the most horrific objects he'd ever seen in both lives.
Chocolate, taffy, gummies, caramels, toffee—all manner of candies had spilled out of Angel Dust’s chest.
“Angel.” The static had disappeared from Alastor’s horror-struck voice.
The spider demon tried to move away from the terrifying mess he’d left in the middle of the bed, but it seemed like his body was too weak, only managing to flop onto his side. “Ya don’t hafta sound so surprised, Smiles.”
But how could he not? How was this possible? He thought... “Did Valentino—?”
“S’not him.” Angel shot him a rueful smile. His cheeks were so pale they couldn't even hold a blush anymore. “But he knows.”
This could not be happening. The sweets he’d internally laughed at earlier could not be the same detritus littering Angel’s bedspread like a deathbed confession. Neon green veves floated around the Radio Demon as his temper flared, the shadows on the wall elongating, branching out in spectral flames. His voice took on the gruesome tone he normally reserved only for his broadcasts.
“Ẇ̴̡͍̹̰̖̯̘̞̝̺͍̭̥̀̑̌̀̓́̏͐̍̌̔͘͜ͅh̴̛͉̣͂̌͂̈́̃̈́̾̈́̊̑̈́̃̇̂͘͠o̶̧͔̻̬̼̘͓̎͑̾͘ ̵̩̝̻̰͇͐̍̉̌́̒͑͐ͅd̷̞̥̭̺̰͓͙͈͒̇͋̈́̂̇̐̀̏̄͊́ͅi̴̼̰̹̹̲̖̬͓̝̬̱̩̣͖̤̎̋̾̍́̀̾̇͘̕̕͜ͅd̷̡̻͚̼̜͙̉̃̈́́̾̓̋̀͐̈͆͘ ̶̡̧̧̛̭̯̟̮͇̰̙̥̯̻͐̎̒͆̓̏̀̊̆̄͂̾̐͌͝͝t̴͖̞̹̪̰̫̒͋͗̐͊͛̐͆̈́̈́̚ḧ̸̠̘͓̺̤͓͚̝̣͉́̍̎̃͑̏̂͊̈́͆̑͜i̷̳͙̰͉̱̟̓s̴̠̼̠͇̬̀́̓́͒̓͠ ̷̡̢̧̘̖̺̭̭̜̲͗̃̿̚͘t̸̨̧̧̲̙̰͕̖̦͂̊̊̋̓ö̶̧͇̫̜̳͉̖̪͇̭͇̘͖̤̹̟́̈́̈́̌̾͐͒͛́͜͝͝ ̵̫͚̖͉̝͓͉̻͇̩̞̟̎̉͒̒͒̃ÿ̶̼̖̳̓͐̌̀̂͘ȍ̷̧̨̳̟̥̬̯̙͍̙̞̬̣͚͔̭̾̾̃͒͛̄̿͛̀͘͜ų̷̹͍̬̳̣͚͙̠̙̚͜ͅ?̴͔͉̖́͐̑̀̓͂͗̀̈́̑̈́̏́̂͘” The Radio Demon snarled. “Ḭ̸̧̡̨̡̯͙͉̗͔͚̝̲͙͍̫̖̈̂̔̋ ̸̨̛̮̣̻̜̣̥͇̟͔͕̥͓̟́͐͛̂͒͛͗̊̈́̈́̓̕͜͝͠͝ẇ̸̯̰̍̐̌͛̕ĭ̵̝͛l̶̖͎͍̠̽̌̏l̸̖̩̩͍͚̻͍̇̄̑̍̔̃͒̃̆̍͘͘̚͜ ̴̡̣͔̞͔̟̠͍̗̈̒ͅr̵̡̨̛͇͓̺̝̱̋͆̑͛̈́͒̒̋̉͊͛͒̔̕͝ȉ̵̢̧̛̗̠͚̹̭̘̭͎͕̭͉͓̯̽̒́͗͋̍̋̾͊̅p̷̨̨͎̞͖̳̦͇̺̘͖̝̫͌͐̈́͋̿̀̕̚̚͝͠ ̶̧̞͈̰̝̻̟̪̰̊̈̊̈́̚̚͝͝ţ̶̧͍̗̰̬̫̼̖͇̣̯̤͍̜̞̿̏̾̀̎̏̊̅̌̄̈́̄̄̋̃̈́͝ĥ̶̢̭̟̝̺̥͎̼͙̖̖͊̎͛̄͆̌ͅē̷̞̜̲̱̭̞̱̥̌̇͋̽̎̆̾̂̄͝i̴̙͙̐͊́̔r̵̢͕͎̜̻̜͖̠͙̙͛̂̓̕͜ ̸͉̺͙̠̱͍̯͖͕̤́̐̉̆̊̓͜ś̷͕̞̺̖̜͎̗͕́̌̈͌̋ͅp̶̨̡̨̢͙̣͇̣̘̮͇̫͔̣͆͒̄̏͑͒̇̈͘̕̕i̴̧͍̇͜ņ̴̜̪̣̘͉̦̥̝͎͍̼̘̠̭̔̒͊̎̂͜e̵̡̛̩͙͔̝̘̞̹̼͈̠̼̠͊͒̎̿̃̽̇͗̇͌̚͜͝ͅ ̸̢̢̤͖̪͉̰̦̱͕̟͙͐̌̒̽͜f̵̡͎͕͗͆͂̓̑̔̏r̷̡̢̨͖̭̺̦͙̺̺̋̌̒̒̈͑͒̄̌͝ͅȍ̵̧̘̹̮̜͇̬̮͕̭̣̲̾̽̃̈̄̈̅̅͋́̀̏͝͝m̶̛̬̜̯̜̪̘͉̖̬̬̻̼͔͌́͒͛̋̈́͌͑͒́̅͆̂̚͝ ̷̢͈͖̠̪̞͇͎͖̫̙̜͇̪͈̣̍̅̇͌̔̉̍̔̎̆̚̚̕͠t̵̛̮͇̣̺͕͇̜̂̆̏̒̉h̴̨͔̗͇͍̰̫̲̊ͅê̶̡̧̘̠̼̘̹̗̔̔̈́̽͛̀͆̕i̶̡̮̰̪̺̪̳̖͙͗̽̌̐̈́̾͗͜r̸̺̟̺̼̪̍ ̷̯̜͐̈́̀͊͌̑̿͗̑̈́̍̇̒b̵̧̲͈͇̜̠̫̺̈̒͌̓̄͆͛̎̂̚̚̚͜͝ͅǫ̸̢̖̝͉̳͚̰̘̟̑͜d̶̗͕̖̒͌̓̇̒̅̕ÿ̷̨̛̝̗̣̦̳̰͉̜̰̽͒̔ ̵̛̹̰̝̮̱̼̭̥͍͖̖̱̤͓̜̤̝̂̇͛̇̿̂̔̌̂̽͑͑̅͝ä̷͎n̴̢̡͚̳̖̗̰͈̪̲̭̲̙̭̤̮̣̊͋̇̆̈̅͝d̸͕̲̻͛̌͒́͑̉́̓̚ ̴̧̹̀͝m̴̨͚̬̯͙̱̘͌͑̓͊͐̑̈̋a̵̩̫͎̟̤͔͓̤̮̔̃͐̕ͅk̶̢̡̢̧͍̭̹̠͕̦̭̼̦̥̠̳͌͌̐̊̓̄̊̚͜e̸̥̘̭͉̠̜̮̽̑̔̉̈́̀̃͛͌̈́͆̾̐̚̚͝ͅ ̴̡̡̥͇̤̮͓͍̯̮̱̝̙̼̜͓̭͒͗̆͝͝ț̵̨̧͍͚̦̼̻̪͈̝͍̳̼͇͎̺̓̄̋h̸͇͍̜͚̪̪̦̪̯̙̪̊̂̃͂̏̊͂́̃͆̕͜͜͝͠e̵̜͈̅͐̃̆́m̷͎̗͓̫̑̉̆́̔̀̃͋̓̍͂—”
“Smiles, stop.” Angel bravely held up a trembling hand. “Ya can’t make—”
His words were halted by another fitful cough, more sweets spilling onto the bed, while all Alastor could do was watch with terrified fascination. The syrup... It smelled like Sunday mornings, buttermilk biscuits fresh on the table, his tiny fingers sticky from stealing a taste, the sound of shouting from another room dulled by a closed door. It called to him, asking him to swirl his fingertips in the dark amber liquid, each cell in his body begging for a taste.
Angel reached for him, palm up. “It’s not yer fault.”
The offered hand should have felt like a peace offering, but Alastor flinched as if he was about to be stabbed in the heart. And wasn’t it, though? Wasn’t this the worst kind of death threat, the worst kind of betrayal, the ultimate buffoonery from beyond the grave?
He held Angel Dust’s hand like a talisman. “Why would you do this?”
Angel’s laugh was light and airy, without shame or remorse. “Not like I had a choice, Smiles. It jus’... happened.”
“There must be a cure.” Alastor was on his way to the door without even knowing how he’d gotten there. “Charlie can… or Lucifer! Perhaps Lucifer can—”
He’d beg if he had to. Get on his knees and prostrate himself before that absolute clown that ruled this wasteland if he had to. He’d sell his soul a million times over, to whoever would have it, if only to—
“Alastor.” Angel’s voice sounded so small, so tired. “Ya know there’s no cure fa this.”
He’d make one. By all that was unholy, he’d go to the ends of Hell to find a cure. Maybe he could call on the Loas, sacrifice anything, just to be heard. Or he'd find a way to knock on Heaven's doors. Weren't they supposed to be merciful? This wasn't mercy. This was... Alastor gripped his hair, the strands breaking into tufts in his hands at the force his panic led him into.
This cannot be happening. Not to Angel Dust. So what if no one has found a cure for this blasphemous disease? They just weren’t looking hard enough. But Alastor would. He—
“Smiles, please.” Angel sounded so, so tired. “Jus’... sit wi’ me.”
Alastor made his way back to the bed, the cloying scent of cane syrup turning his stomach. He was once again reminded how much he hated sweets. His clawtips hovered over the mess, wanting to banish them away, but unable to do so, because these candies were a part of Angel Dust, and how could he ever want any part of Angel Dust to disappear, to cease to be, when just the mere presence of these cursed confections already spelled Angel Dust’s departure from this wretched plane of existence?
With not an inordinate amount of self-loathing, Alastor dipped a clawtip into the syrup. Angel Dust watched him as he licked it off, gaze heavy with understanding. The arachnid demon watched as Alastor chose half of a bonbon, popping it into his mouth, the sweetness of the chocolate doing nothing to allay the fury and despair coating each piece of the Radio Demon’s insides as he swallowed the candy.
Maybe if he ate all the evidence... Maybe it won't be true...
“Do I… taste good?” Angel’s voice sounded teasing, and if Alastor closed his eyes, he could imagine they were at the bar drinking, him with his rye and Angel whatever sugary concoction he preferred that day as they were wont to do most nights.
“You taste exquisite, my dear.” He said, the words like ash in his mouth. “Simply sublime.”
As much as he cared for Angel Dust, they both knew Alastor was not capable of love.
There was just something inside him that would not let him feel that one emotion most people—demons, angels, whatever—could feel. Alastor had known it while he was still living, but he had never wanted to have the capacity to feel this dreadful emotion more than he did at this moment, sitting on Angel Dust’s bed, seeing the evidence of his failure to provide what the person he cherished the most needed. He watched as Angel Dust coughed and hacked up even more candy, the colorful waterfall of sweets as disgusting as it was invaluable.
The unspoken fact of it was that if Alastor could love anyone at all, dead or alive, it would be Angel Dust.
“I wish…” Alastor trailed off, the deadened organ in his chest splintering into microscopic pieces.
Angel Dust giggled, swiping at the ichor spilling from the corner of his mouth, the brackish blood tinged with cane syrup. “When I fantasized about ya eatin’ me before, gotta admit, this wasn’t what I had in mind.”
There was no word yet created for the despair that swam through Alastor’s veins.
“Don’t let any part’a me go ta waste, would’ja, Smiles?” Angel’s smile was as heartbreaking as it was beautiful.
And Alastor knew that was one broadcast he would keep private.
Fin.