Chapter Text
The snow was an, er, interesting touch.
Lucifer Morningstar, King of Hell, stood on the balcony of the Hazbin Hotel, his arms folded, the cold wind biting through the thin fabric of his shirt. He hadn't planned on staying out there long, just a moment. Just a pause, a small reprieve from the riot of colour and sentiment inside. He definitely hadn't come out here, to this particular balcony, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. No, definitely not. He just wanted to see what his kingdom looked like when blanketed in white.
The snow swirled around him, falling in lazy spirals and zigzags, settling on the gilded railing like ashes after a blaze. Some Goetia prick—with a head too big even for the Pride Ring—had, in a fit of aristocratic spite, decided to freeze everything. Lucifer had let it happen out of curiosity. It was a distraction, a change, that was all. Something new, and different. A variation on eternal suffering. Ice instead of flame.
The creak of the door behind him made his spine stiffen.
“Ah.” The voice was familiar, smooth as music through radio static. “I didn’t expect to see royalty such as yourself out here, in the cold.” A pause. A light chuckle. “Especially not without a coat.”
Lucifer turned, slowly, almost cautiously, to see Alastor—the Radio Demon himself—standing in the doorway, a steaming mug of tea cradled between his long fingers, red eyes burning like hellfire behind his obnoxious smile. He was bundled up in a dapper wool coat, tailored just so. The entire scene looked like a Sinsmas postcard, rather than the frozen edge of eternal damnation.
“Of course you’d be here,” Lucifer said, eyes narrowing. “Pretending to act all civilised whilst hell freezes and cracks beneath us.”
Alastor’s grin widened. “And you’re pretending not to be cold.”
“No, I’m not,” Lucifer scoffed. But the involuntary shiver that followed betrayed him. Fuck this. Fuck the cold, fuck the bloody ambience. And most of all, fuck Alastor, for noticing his weakness. He was the King of Hell. None of this should bother him. Not the cold, not the bloody Radio Demon. But, as much as he hated it, it did.
“Yes, you are,” Alastor replied, stepping closer. He lowered his voice, a whisper behind static. “What are you doing out here?”
“This is my hotel!” Lucifer snapped. Alastor raised an eyebrow. “Your hotel? Isn’t this your daughter’s doomed little passion project?”
Anger flared behind Lucifer’s eyes. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed you, sneaking around Charlie, twisting her vision, undermining her ideals—”
“I helped her,” Alastor replied, his voice maddeningly calm. “That’s more than I can say for you. She believes in what she’s doing, and I admire that. Even if you don’t.”
Lucifer stepped forwards. The air crackled. The King of Hell was close enough to smell the static that cling to Alastor’s coat like smoke. “You don't admire anything you can't control,” he hissed, voice low, and deadly. “You're the puppeteer, the ringmaster, the Overlord. Don't try to convince me you actually care!”
“I'm not trying to convince you of anything. Besides, you may act as if you trust in her vision, but we both know that you truly trust no one but yourself.”
They stood there, staring at each other, snow and static swirling around them. The usual cacophony of violence that came from the streets below was muffled by the blizzard. It was as if this balcony had been paused, everything around it set on hold. Did Goetia possess such powers? Lucifer didn't know.
His fingers twitched against the golden railing. He didn't know if he wanted to punch Alastor, or grab the front of his coat, and pull him closer. The Radio Demon was as unreadable as always. He tilted his head to one side, as if regarding Lucifer with curiosity.
He sighed, and set his mug of tea on the railing. Ceramic hit gold with a dainty clink. “You truly are infuriating,” he said, his voice measured, and composed. But there was something hidden in the static. Uncertainty, perhaps? Lucifer couldn't tell. Yet he was sure that there was something, something, in those burning eyes, and that smug, sharp-toothed, grin. The reckless dreamer in Lucifer wondered what would happen if he provoked that emotion, if he drew it out and messed with it. But his fear of abandonment made him pause. The Radio Demon hated him. Yes, that was it. What he felt for Alastor was merely mutual loathing. Nothing more. But the gold flush that burned across Lucifer's face betrayed the lies he told himself.
He was about to leave when he felt a hand on his waist. “Let me go,” he growled, fully prepared to unleash his demonic powers if need be. But before he could do anything further, Alastor had leaned down, and kissed him.
It was a brief, fleeting, thing, over far to quickly. The hellfire that had flared inside Lucifer melted like snow. Then Alastor was gone, the cold returned. All that remained to indicate the Radio Demon's presence was his coat, wrapped tightly around Lucifer's shoulders, the crackle of static still clinging to the fabric.
Lucifer stood, motionless, his small frame bundled in the thick wool of Alastor’s coat. Despite its warmth, he shivered, not from the cold, but from the memory—Alastor’s absurd and unspoken confession, his kiss, brief and devastating as a bullet. The air still hummed around him, a faint echo of the Radio Demon’s presence.
He raised a hand to his mouth, as if checking this was real. Gold flushed across his cheeks again as his guilty conscience recalled the warmth of Alastor’s lips.
“No,” he said aloud, glaring at the door through which the Radio Demon had disappeared. “Absolutely not. I do not have feelings for him.”
He should go inside. But he didn’t have the nerve to face the others. His mind replayed the experience over and over again—Alastor’s voice, the burning glint in his eyes, the way his hands fit perfectly around Lucifer’s waist.
“Ha!” The King of Hell made a sharp sound somewhere between a laugh and a growl, his breath turning to mist in the frigid air. Of course it had come to this. Of course he’d let his daughter’s little redemption circus spiral into exactly this sort of chaos—a slow, infernal, obsession, months of pretending that he didn’t notice the way Alastor hovered at Charlie’s shoulder, his dedication to the Hotel, the way he smiled his sharp, sinister, smile, the way he regarded Lucifer, like a puzzle to be solved, a riddle to be broken.
And Lucifer, lonely fool that he was, had watched back. Studied Alastor like a crack in the glass, like a notch in an otherwise perfect creation. Waiting, always waiting, for the moment when it all would break, and he would fall, again.
But this time, there would no one to catch him. No one to hold him, to mend his broken wings, and remind him that not all was lost. He pulled the coat tighter around himself, tearing his gaze from the door and out onto the city below. Perhaps Alastor was down there now, hiding somewhere in that frozen labyrinth, smiling to himself, safe in the web of twisting streets and darkened alleyways.
“Fucking coward,” Lucifer hissed. “Mess with me. Kiss me. Leave.”
But the worst part of it all was the way that Lucifer had reacted—the way he’d leaned in, just slightly. Most likely, Alastor hadn’t even noticed. But Lucifer had. He’d wanted…more.
“No. No, no, no.” Lucifer shook his head, his face burning. He snapped his fingers, summoning a filament of golden flame. The snowflakes falling around him hissed into steam as they came in contact with the burning thread. He was the King of Hell. He would not be made a fool of. Especially not by some prick with a stupid coat and a smug, infuriating, smile—
His fingers tightened around the cold metal of the railing. Somewhere below, an explosion sounded, a distant boom muted by the snow. Lucifer paid it no heed. The violence and chaos of his realm was familiar. Routine. Predictable. This…this feeling, was not.
He wasn’t supposed to feel anything, least of all for him. The Radio Demon was a pest, an irritation, an old ghost clinging to power like static on the airwaves. He was dangerous. Arrogant. Uncontrollable.
And yet, Lucifer couldn’t help but watch him, couldn’t help but take just one step closer than to him than necessary. Couldn’t help but remember the way he smiled, the way he chuckled dryly whenever he found something amusing—especially when that something involved Lucifer losing his composure.
He had almost lost it now.
Shaking his head, angrily, he released his grip on the railing. Enough was enough. He was going inside. He was going to find Alastor, return his coat, and remind the Radio Demon exactly who he was dealing with. And then…
Well, then they’d see. Then they’d know not to mess with the King of Hell.
He turned towards the door, and almost collided with—him.
Alastor stood there, as if he had never left, his fingers still wrapped around the handle of his mug. There was snow in his hair, and his smile was softer now, quieter.
Lucifer froze. Alastor’s eyes dropped to the coat that was still draped over the Hell-king’s shoulders, then flicked back up again to meet his gaze.
“You didn’t throw it off,” he remarked, mildly.
Lucifer’s mouth went dry. “I—I was busy.”
There was a pause. Then Alastor tilted his head, regarding Lucifer with the same curious expression he’d shown moments before he’d kissed him.
“Busy thinking about me?” he asked.
Lucifer stepped forward. “Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t I dare what?”
“Don’t you dare act like this is a game!” Lucifer snapped. “You don’t kiss someone like that, and then vanish, like some fucking, second-rate magician!”
Alastor’s smile widened, a little sharper, but, also, a little sad. “Would you have stopped me if I’d stayed?”
The words caught in Lucifer’s throat. “…No,” he admitted, quietly.
The silence stretched out, as thick and heavy as the snow that adorned the Hotel.
Then Alastor took a step closer. “Here I am now,” he whispered, softly.
Lucifer hated him. Hated the way his voice tugged at him, pulling him ever nearer. Hated the gold burning on his face like a traitor’s brand.
He didn’t move. He didn’t even speak.
Alastor set his mug down again, slowly, carefully, as if giving Lucifer time to run, to change his mind. When he didn’t, Alastor gave a long sigh. “You don’t have to forgive me,” he said. “I understand that I am not…a safe choice.”
Lucifer laughed, low and humourless. “There are no safe choices down here.”
Alastor nodded. He raised his hand, tentatively, his fingers hovering above Lucifer’s jaw.
“You’re not the only one who’s alone,” he murmured, the hum of his radio-static whisper almost musical.
Lucifer’s breath caught. Then, without thinking, without allowing himself a moment in which to second-guess, he closed the distance, and kissed him again, rising up on his toes so as to be able to reach Alastor’s face.
It didn’t last long. It didn’t have too.
They broke apart. Lucifer blinked up at Alastor, acutely aware of the way his heart was pounding.
“I hate you,” he whispered.
“And yet,” Alastor murmured, brushing a strand of white-blonde hair from Lucifer’s face. “Here we are.”
Lucifer said nothing. Alastor made to move away, but the King of Hell tightened his grip.
“Stay,” he insisted.
Alastor smiled, and pressed a kiss to Lucifer’s forehead. “Of course, my dear.”