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It’s 2:00 in the morning when Lucifer tiptoes downstairs.
The large, winding halls are empty, and the thick maroon rug eats the sound of his footsteps, so the only spectators of his late-night excursion are the dim lights lining the wall’s trim and the shadows hanging from the ceiling. Not even the stairs creak as he descends them. He runs his fingers down the polished wooden banister, the glide so smooth and soft that it tickles a small puerile innocence that he hasn’t felt since he was only a few hundred years old, running his fingers across the long, golden rails of Heaven’s gate.
Charlie had done the same thing. Running her little hands along the gate surrounding their palace, just to make her fingers tingle from the vibrations. Across the closely-knit guard rails lining the stairs, because she couldn’t reach the banister yet. So long as it was made of metal, there wasn’t a fence she wouldn’t drag her hands down.
He and Lilith may have brought her to life, but Charlie had brought life to the palace. So vibrant and innocent, the beauty of the galaxy couldn’t compare.
Which is why her excitement to leave felt like such a stab in the chest. His brain went rampant with worst-case scenarios of her out in Pentagram City, alone, rubbing elbows with the worst of humanity. His solicitude bundled her in its arms and begged her to stay, but she’d taken after Lilith in that regard; too free spirited to be told what to do.
His worry never left him, just became a festering sore on his heart. He didn’t like thinking about what she was doing out there, so he didn’t, and the guilt became a pressing finger into that tender ache.
But now, pride balloons in his chest, so large and swollen it presses into his ribs.
Giddiness flutters under his skin like a flock of birds taking flight.
It’s been a week since the Extermination, and the reconstruction of the hotel went better than he ever anticipated.
For thousands of years, the most he’s used his powers of creation for were small, meaningless hobbies that did nothing except clutter his room, but once they’d cleared the rubble and began rebuilding, a fire lit inside him. Walls erected, creating new foundations that spawned infinite possibilities. Room layouts, interior designs, ambiance, structures. Hundreds of minor details that made up a wider whole.
The rush of it all was exhilarating.
As he reaches the bottom of the stairs and crosses the lounge, he admires the trimming along the walls and the credenzas with their crystal-hemmed lamps. Charlie had picked out the soft beige carpet, to replace the tattered old thing in the previous lounge. The walls are covered in a rich, maroon wallpaper that isn’t peeling in strips.
The hotel looks infinitely better if he says so himself.
Razzle is curled into a tight ball on the couch, and Lucifer bends to ruffle his fluffy woolen head as he passes. Normally, he’d be in Charlie’s room, guarding the doors and windows, as is his job. However, since the death of his other half, he’s taken to wandering the halls and sleeping on the couch, always at an angle where he can see Dazzle’s statue through the large glass windows.
“Hey there, buddy,” Lucifer coos, fingers skirting along his large, curved horns. “Sorry to wake you. You go right back to sleep. That’s a good boy.”
Razzle bleats softly, but does so, glowing yellow eyes disappearing as he curls up again with a deep sigh.
The bar from the previous hotel had, unfortunately, been re-integrated into the new design. Not by his choice. The ugly thing was best left under the rubble. But, like a roach crawling out of a trash-heap, the oh-so-scary Radio Demon reappeared—just a few days ago—and weaseled it in under his nose.
By the time he’d noticed, it was too late.
Husk had already reclaimed it, and as soon as the drinks started flowing, the bar quickly became a hot spot for the others. They gathered around it in-between renovations, laughing and recounting stories from the last few months. It reminded them of the good times in the old hotel, and Lucifer didn’t have the heart to argue for its complete and utter destruction.
The smirk Alastor gave him almost made him reconsider, though.
Sighing, he rifles through the glass cupboards behind the bar until he finds a whiskey he likes. He grabs a tumbler, left drying near the sink, but stiffens, and turns. A faint patter moves across the wooden floor, becoming a softer muffle as it gets to the rug. He squints at the shadow moving through the darkness and carefully puts down his glass to round the counter and get a proper look at whatever prowler is sneaking around so late at night.
He relaxes.
Keekee gives him a lazy glance as she pads across the rug and back onto the hardwood floor, likely hunting the few (and carefully regulated) rodents allowed inside the building, mostly for Niffty’s sake. He’d been informed of her… war with the vermin in the previous hotel, as well as her disappointment that the battle would never see a befitting end.
She was the one who stabbed Adam and rid Lucifer of the biggest thorn in his ass since man’s creation, the least he could do was give her a few enemies to hunt down.
He fills the glass halfway, tucks the bottle back into place, and rounds the bar. The first sip of whiskey makes him hiss, the sting burning his throat raw in a way that’s just shy of uncomfortable. He takes another sip.
He’s been jittery all evening. A prickle under his skin that left him bouncing his leg whenever he sat and drumming his fingers against his thighs when they weren’t holding a plate. Even after retiring for the night, he hasn't been able to fight this restlessness off. A nightcap should do the trick. Whiskey typically calms his nerves, and if he’s lucky, he’ll get a few hours of sleep before the big event tomorrow.
Groaning softly, he scrubs his free hand down his face. Right. That. Maybe he’ll take the whole bottle upstairs. Give himself a proper buzz tomorrow, if just to give him the energy to take on the day.
Sighing, he lifts the glass to his lips again, but pauses, tilting his head.
Music. So soft that, had he been standing just a few feet away, he wouldn’t have heard it at all.
“Weird,” he mutters, redirecting himself toward the kitchen.
Everyone should be asleep. They’d finished the last of the hotel’s renovations today, just in time. To celebrate, they spent the rest of the evening partying. Well, partying was a strong word. It was nothing but a simple spread of food and an open bar, but it was the biggest social gathering he’d been to in decades, perhaps even centuries.
A sad reality that sunk in when Angel Dust suggested going bar-hopping, only after he needed it explained to him what bar-hopping was. Every conversation he’s had since leaving the palace is another reminder of just how out of the loop he is with present-day Hell. Or, the new terminology in present-day Hell, at least.
The technology boom was unexpected, but delightful. For a while. Eventually, he couldn’t keep up with all the shows being pumped out and the stories weren’t intriguing enough to make it worth the effort. He’s pretty sure he’s behind on a few phone models too, judging by the thin, sleek design everyone else has.
But overall, it’s…nice getting out. Being around people again. Laughing. Conversing. Making jokes, even if he still feels awkward most of the time. Charlie helped him as much as she could by guiding him through conversations, so he wasn’t left nervously rambling about whatever topic they were discussing. But the party ended hours ago and the only reason he’s awake is because his body is too much of a wreck to know when to calm the fuck down.
The music gets louder the closer he gets to the kitchen, and, despite the lively swing of the song, he calls on his power, bringing it up to the surface in preparation. While he doesn’t expect an exorcist to sneak into the hotel and infiltrate the fridge, Adam had a lot of soldiers at his command and, well, who knows? Maybe one stuck around to finish the job. He’s not taking any chances.
The door is open a crack, spilling a thin strip of light across the cold, tile floor. Lucifer lays a hand on the handle and gives it a gentle push, just enough to peek inside.
He doesn’t recognize Alastor at first.
How could he?
He’s never seen the man without his striped red coat, wearing such…casual clothing. Well, casual for him, Lucifer assumes. Just a pair of black slacks, a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and red suspenders.
A flicker of movement draws his eyes downward.
And a tail. A short, fuzzy red tail.
Somehow, that’s the most surprising part of this entire picture.
Alastor works near near one of the many stoves lining the wall, occasionally tending over a large steaming pot as he chops what looks like a sausage. A warm, earthy aroma fills the kitchen like acid steam during a storm, except much more appealing and less fatal.
The only reason he connects this strange, surreal creature to his current source of headaches is the microphone cane leaning against the counter and the mound of questionably cut red and black hair atop their head.
Assuming he hasn’t been noticed, he steps back to leave, but the song dips a few decibels and the top of Alastor’s hair—ear?—twitches.
“You know, for someone as short as you, you’d think it’d be easier to sneak up on people,” an annoyingly cheerful voice pipes up, layered in an old filter that sounds like it could easily belong to the old, wooden radio set further down the counter.
Lucifer’s lips pull into a sneer. He can see Alastor’s shit-eating grin without him even turning around. Literally. His shadow stretches across the wall in front of him, smiling from ear to ear.
“Believe me, if I wanted to be sneaky, you wouldn’t have noticed,” he says, tossing the door open the rest of the way, uncaring of the way it thuds against the wall.
“Ah, yes, slippery as a snake,” Alastor replies in a cheeky tone, akin to a host leaning in to share an inside joke with the audience. “It hasn’t worked that well for you, or so I’ve heard.”
A laugh track plays over the radio, loud and jovial, yet mocking. It fills the room from all sides, like he’s truly surrounded by a crowd, and Lucifer scowls, cheeks darkening.
How Alastor takes something so small and makes it feel so degrading is a trick that’d be impressive if it didn’t make him extremely punchable. Everything about him is punchable. From the tops of his fuzzy ears—hair?—to the bottom of his hoofed shoes. He radiates a smugness that has crawled under Lucifer’s skin since the moment he laid eyes on him.
Familiar, yet different.
It isn’t like Adam’s arrogance, flashy, loud, and all over the place. Alastor’s is more pointed. Needling and subtle. Slight cuts that accumulate until Lucifer wants nothing more than to grab his stupid, smug face and launch him up to Heaven so he can be their problem.
“So, tell me, what is our esteemed ruler of Hell doing lurking around so late at night?” Alastor peers over his shoulder, giving Lucifer a glimpse of his ever-present, mocking smile. “A bit fiendish, don’t you think?”
“I could ask you the same thing,” Lucifer counters, cocking his hip. “A little late for a midnight snack, isn’t it?”
“Little late for a run to the barrelhouse, isn’t it?” Alastor turns just enough to coyly point at the drink in Lucifer’s hand with his knife. The top buttons of his shirt are open, revealing a bit of collarbone that, much like his tail, is disconcerting.
Seeing him like this, so…loose and informal, making food, listening to music, like he’s an actual person doing ordinary person things, feels almost prodigious. Which is strange, considering Lucifer was present for the literal birth of the universe.
“Yeah, well—” he starts, but Alastor holds up a hand, cutting him off.
“Ah, hold that thought.” The radio’s volume increases as a new song plays. “My dear Lady Ella has taken the stage. You don’t mind, do you?”
A smooth violin melody flows through the air, cutting off Lucifer’s retort. A moment later, a woman’s voice carries through the speaker, sophisticated and sweet.
I feel a sudden urge to sing, the kind of ditty that invokes the spring. So, control your desire to curse, while I crucify the verse.
Alastor’s back is to him again, humming along with the tune as he slices through the links of meat. When he shifts to check on the simmering pot, Lucifer spots a rocks-glass nearby, a quarter full of amber liquid.
He points at it, accusingly. “You’re drinking too!”
“Why ever would that be a problem?” Alastor laughs, dumping the sausage into the pot. He wags his basting spoon at Lucifer, like he’s being silly. “I don’t think you’re one to judge.”
“But I—you just—” Lucifer sputters, and when Alastor laughs again, he looks away, taking a bitter sip of his own drink. The burn drags bits of his agitation down, but not enough to stop fantasizing about kicking Alastor’s kneecaps in.
I understand the reason why, you’re sentimental ‘cause so am I. It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-lovely.
A springy, jazzy tune has lifted the song, adding trumpets and drums in the background, giving it a toe-tapping quality he can’t help but enjoy. He swirls the booze in his glass, lips pursed, before grinning and sliding over to the counter behind Alastor, leaning against it.
“Sooo…quite a battle last week, huh?”
“Indeed. A riveting event. A real showstopper for the ages.” Alastor’s tone takes a sweet-biting edge. “Must’ve been nice to see old friends.”
The jab hits like a poke in the eye—slightly painful, but mostly annoying. Lucifer brushes it off by literally brushing down the smooth silk of his pajama shirt. Compared to the other man, he feels a little underdressed, which is silly because, if anything, Alastor is over-dressed .
“So,” he side-eyes him, smirking over the rim of his glass. “Where were you during the fight?”
There’s no hitch in Alastor’s movements as he collects the dirty dishes and places them next to the sink. Nothing except a small twitch from his tail.
“Around. All that bloodlust, death and mayhem, there was simply too much to see and so little time.” He returns to the pot, examining its contents.
“Yeah? Heard you got in a tussle with Adam.” Alastor’s tail flutters again. Lucifer’s smirk widens, which he hides behind another sip. “How’d that go?”
Victory lances through him when Alastor doesn’t respond, and he gets the irrational urge to fist pump the air and shout “Ha- HA!”
You can tell me at a glance, what a swell night this is for romance. And when I kiss ya’ just say to me, “it’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s delectable.
It’s delirious, it’s dilemma, it’s de-limit, it’s de-lovely.
“No one saw your fight with him, so they couldn’t really say,” Lucifer continues, shrugging nonchalantly. “You kind of just disappeared there. Charlie thought you died.”
If only, he adds internally.
“Hmm, and where were you?” Alastor asks, sharper and more incisive. “Cutting it a little close, weren’t we?” He looks over his shoulder, teeth glinting under the light. “Any longer, and there might not have been a Charlie to worry about me. How sad that would’ve been for you, to lose your wife and your daughter.”
Lucifer’s delight goes cold, quickly replaced by an explosion in his gut as he shoots up, baring his teeth. Glee shines in Alastor’s eyes as he turns to face him directly. The small horns nestled in his hair crack menacingly, growing bigger and sharper. Grabbing them and hurling him through the wall would be so easy. Blasting him to ash would be all too fun.
He’s the king of this literal godforsaken place. Alastor is nothing but another sinner with a little more power than the rest. Nothing and no one can stop Lucifer here, in his own domain.
Except…
Charlie’s face comes to him, so full of relief and joy when Alastor reappeared, hugging him like he actually meant something to her. The blazing inferno inside him only grows hotter, threatening to burn through his body and turn him back into a being of pure light.
What does she see in him?
Why does she care so much?
There’s nothing Alastor can give her Lucifer can’t offer himself.
But…she’d be devastated if anything happened to him. All her friends are important to her, and, while Alastor might not fall under that exact umbrella, they have some kind of relationship. Lucifer doesn’t understand it, but it’s there.
He and Charlie are only just starting to rekindle their relationship, he can’t afford to screw this up, especially over a sinner like Alastor. He’s irrelevant. Like everything in Hell’s constantly shifting landscape, things change. One day—with any luck—he’ll be gone.
Taking a deep breath through his nose, Lucifer forces himself to calm and clasps his hands behind his back. “It doesn’t concern you what I was doing,” he says with a sniff. “I got there, and she and I handled Adam. While you hid.”
A burst of static interrupts the song and the shadows in the kitchen grow darker. Alastor’s eyes blacken and his ears flick back in a threatening manner, not quite lying flat, but almost there. His shoulders tense, and his smile narrows, like a high wire pulled too tight.
Gotcha.
Lucifer’s own grin sharpens as he relaxes against the counter again. “I can sense angelic power, you know. Comes with the territory. And let me tell you,” he leans forward, “you reek of it. What’s that about? Adam must’ve hit you pretty hard if I can still smell it on you.”
The spoon in Alastor’s grip snaps in two, the broken top hitting the floor with a dull clunk. His ears are flat on his head now, smile taking on a truly deranged quality. The music glitches again, cutting off and on, interlaced with so much static the words become meaningless garble.
A strange, electric burst of anticipation zips up Lucifer’s spine. The tips of his fingers tingle and he leans forward, wings unfurling from his back. He can’t quite explain the jolt in his gut or the hammering of his heart, but his eagerness is so potent he can almost taste it.
Come on, he challenges, daring Alastor to attack. Do it. Give me a reason.
Then, with a sharp jolt and scratch, the radio smooths out and the song restarts.
I feel a sudden urge to sing, the kind of ditty that invokes the spring. So, control your desire to curse, while I crucify the verse.
Spinning on his heels, hands behind his back, Alastor bends over to look Lucifer in the eye with a pleasant smile.
“The concern is sweet, but as you can see, I am quite well. Nothing but a scratch, so they say.” He straightens, adjusting the collar of his shirt like the entire ordeal was nothing but a minor inconvenience. He opens a drawer to replace the broken spoon and goes back to stirring the pot.
“It seems it all worked out,” he continues pleasantly. “Charlie’s dream has come to fruition, and despite some of the… questionable design choices, the hotel is up and running again. Job well done.”
“Yeah, you missed out on that part too,” Lucifer says, stomach sinking in disappointment when the bait isn’t taken. His wings fold into his back with a muted flutter. Adrenaline still buzzes under his skin, itching for an outlet. Needing release. “Off licking your wounds?” He asks, hoping to stoke the flames again.
Alastor doesn’t respond this time which is a little unsatisfying. His tail twitches, but otherwise, he’s back to being impassive.
Lucifer takes another sip. His drink is almost gone. The sting down his throat hints that maybe, just maybe, all the alcohol he consumed today is the culprit of his building headache.
As the silence ticks on, his restlessness morphs into boredom. He doesn’t realize he’s staring at the floor until Alastor steps to the side to grab a measuring cup full of brown liquid, which he slowly pours into the pot with a loud hiss of steam. Lucifer’s eyes slide up his body, climbing his long legs to his thin waist. He broadens towards the shoulders but is more limber than stocky. His bare arms fade from beige to black, from his elbows to his fingers, like they’d been dipped in paint. The red tips of his fingers pop against the dark backdrop, and for a moment, Lucifer can’t help but follow them with his eyes as Alastor returns the--now empty--measuring cup to the counter.
It’s only because he’s paying such close attention that he makes out pale slashes on his skin. A collection of them that starts at Alastor’s hands and climbs up his forearms, where they disappear behind his sleeves. Scars. Small, by the looks of them, but plentiful.
This verse I’ve started seems to me, the ‘Tin Pan-tithesis’ of melody. So, to spare you all the pain, we’ll skip the darn thing and sing the refrain.
There’s no point wondering where he got them because there’s no point in asking. Lucifer’s not so naïve as to expect an answer, and not so angry that he’ll poke for one. Which leaves little else to do, so he sees no point in staying.
Brushing off his pants, he gets up to return to his room. Just as he opens his mouth to announce his departure, he wavers, noticing the small, subtle way Alastor rubs his chest, right where the biggest congregation of angelic energy festers in his skin. A prickling buzz Lucifer can feel from here, like needles peppering his bones.
The fact that Alastor took a direct hit and didn’t die is admittedly impressive, but living with the aftermath…
An angel’s power is raw, unadulterated energy. As much as it sours his tongue to admit, Adam was powerful in his own right. As the first human man—one of the first souls to enter Heaven—he’s been alive for a while. He’s had thousands of years to cultivate his power and wasn’t hesitant to use it.
Frowning, Lucifer focuses on the energy to get an idea of how much is left. His skin prickles, his ears buzz, and a taste like lightning fills his mouth. The wound had been slashed up across Alastor’s chest. The edges aren’t bad, but the center of the mass, the area that took the brunt of the hit, thrums as if alive.
“Are you…okay?” He asks, stilted and awkward. “Is it healing up alrigh—”
“I’m fine,” Alastor interrupts, hand snapping away to find purchase on the handle of the pot. “Now, if you don’t mind , I’m in the middle of something.”
Normally, the dismissal would’ve been irksome, but Lucifer’s agitation softens. Really, it’s not like Alastor came looking to him for a fight.
So please be sweet, my chickadee, and when I kiss ya’ just say to me, “it’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s delirious. It’s dilemma, it’s de-limit, it’s de-lovely.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Lucifer mulls over his next words, tapping a finger against the side of his glass with a soft tink, tink, tink.
“Before I go,” he says, coughing into his fist, though still taking marginal delight in the way Alastor’s hair—ears?—flick. “I…want to thank you for helping Charlie.”
“Yes, well, it was a group effort,” Alastor waves him off, tapping the basting spoon against the side of the pot to clean it off and shuffling over to the spices, which have been waiting patiently for their turn a few feet away.
“Not…not about that,” Lucifer mumbles, shifting his gaze from the back of Alastor’s head to the bottom of his glass. “I mean, helping her with all,” he waves a hand around, “ this. Starting the hotel with her. Helping her with her dream. I know I wasn’t the best…I didn’t really…” he closes his eyes, shaking his head.
The shameful sting he feels every time he's reminded that Charlie had to do this on her own pulses through his chest. She built all of this from the ground up, fighting for their people, while he locked himself in his room, creating nonsense that no one would ever see.
She told him about Alastor appearing out of nowhere and offering his services. Their trip to Cannibal Town, where he helped her enlist the support of its residents. Lucifer doesn’t trust this smiling lunatic one bit, but at least he’d been there for Charlie.
Which is more than he can say.
“You helped her get this off the ground,” he looks up, heart pattering at Alastor’s motionlessness, his hand frozen in the air, holding a container of spice. At least he’s listening. “You’ve protected it, and her, so thank you for that.”
After all, Alastor had been chosen to handle Adam during the Extermination. A poor choice, in hindsight. He obviously lost, and it’s unclear how long the fight even lasted, but just the fact that he survived is a testament to his tenacity. Demons don’t just survive a blast of holy energy, and he’s clearly still dealing with the aftermath.
All to help Charlie.
Even if he’s hard to tolerate, and impossible to get along with, he still did it. The chances of Alastor actually trying to redeem himself is miniscule, and Lucifer’s not sure why he’s even here, but Charlie trusts him.
Sighing, he rubs his face. “Yeah, I…that’s all I wanted to say.”
The only noise is the simmering of the pot and the crooning lyrics of the song. The same one as before. It’s only just now occurring to him it’s playing on loop. That, or it’s the longest fucking song in existence.
When there’s no response, he nods. He’s halfway to the door when Alastor speaks up.
“Yes, well, someone had to help that poor girl. With such big dreams, it’s so easy to fall. Something I’m sure you’d know all about.”
The barb is sharp, hooking deep into Lucifer and pulling his anger back out, rising out of him like a deep-water creature coming up for air. Shame— humiliation— for being cast out of Heaven swims to the surface, wrapping its writhing tentacles around him.
A snarl is barely escaping his lips when Alastor adds, “Charlie is…quite the character. She’s done things no one in Hell thought possible.” He glances over his shoulder, eyes narrowed and serious despite his smile. “But she needs guidance. Proper guidance. Try not to mess that up too, hmm?”
I understand the reason why, you’re sentimental ‘cause so am I. It’s delightful, it’s delicious, it’s de-lovely.
His teeth glow a luminescent yellow, like the lit-up face of an old radio. His smile is too wide, too sharp, to be natural, like someone had taken a knife to his lips and slit the skin. But, for just a second, it seems to soften.
Then he turns away, waving airily over his shoulder. “Ta-ta, then. Charlie has a whole swath of events planned for tomorrow, and we’ll all have to be up bright and early.”
What about you? The question builds so quickly Lucifer presses his lips together to keep it from bursting out.
Tomorrow is the official grand reopening of the hotel. After their success in fending off the exorcists, proving that there’s merit to Charlie’s hotel, that all who come here will be protected, a line of demons are already stretched around the corner.
Everyone offered to help. He and Angel Dust will do the tours with Charlie. Vaggie and Husk will greet interested residents and help them with their applications. Niffty has been assigned to the upper-floors to prepare the bedrooms—and to keep her from their guests until they can acclimate to her presence. Although, being the demon who killed Adam, she’d grown quite famous.
As Charlie’s co-hotelier, Alastor is expected to be there the moment the doors open; directing patrons, checking on every station, and handling complaints.
How many times have you done this? Lucifer can’t help but wonder. Coming down in the middle of the night, listening to old jazz and cooking too much food for one person to eat. Stripping away facets of this feared overlord. Exchanging the Radio Demon’s—allegedly—fierce reputation for simple pants and rolled-up sleeves.
He looks too normal under the crisp kitchen lights, hair swaying softly as he moves, buttons undone, revealing more skin than Lucifer ever thought he’d see. Never imagined he’d like seeing. Warmth flutters under his skin, sudden and startling, and he rips his eyes away.
It’s just the alcohol, he tells himself. I drank too much tonight.
A nightcap might’ve not been the best idea.
With this in mind, he tosses back the last of the liquor and leaves without another word. Without another glance. Trumpets blare and drums thump, fading the farther he goes. He abandons the earthy smell of broth and sharp spice. The clink of the spoon and soft scuffle of Alastor’s shoes on the tiled floor.
Razzle opens his eyes as he strides to the bar and refills his glass.
“What? It’s the last one,” he defends himself.
Razzle gives him what can only be described as an eye roll before settling back down, and Lucifer wonders how much he’d heard.
From here the music is soft, barely audible, but if he concentrates, he can just make out the words.
It’s the same song.
Please be sweet, my chickadee, and when I kiss ya’ just say to me, It’s delightful, it’s delicious,
It’s delectable, its delirious.
A feeling coils in his chest, tight and constricting, like a snake twining through the bones of his ribcage. It’s not an unpleasant feeling, nor is it unfamiliar. Just one he hasn't felt for a while. Another addition to the pieces of himself he’s getting reacquainted with.
Downing the glass, he refills it once more (glancing briefly at Razzle and his judgment) before heading upstairs. The music fades, but he hums the melody, following along with the lyrics anyway.
It’s dilemma, it’s de-limit, it’s deluxe,
It’s de-lovely.