Chapter Text
July 31st, 1921.
Alastor never quite liked his birthdays.
Or, rather, it held little meaning to him aside from the yearly reminder of inching closer to adulthood, closer to having his own say on matters pertaining to his own life. He didn’t quite see the sentimental values in celebrating one’s birth, but Ma is always more than happy to prepare him his favorite dishes for his birthdays and smother him in affections. Father, harsh as ever, rarely ever attended such events in Alastor’s life, except to stop by if he was near and gripe about how Mother spoils him too much, how Alastor can very well cook for himself, how much he’s been nothing but trouble…, Ma would laugh it off light-heartedly and hurry Father away and off to work, making Alastor wonder for perhaps the millionth time in his years of living what made her marry Father.
This birthday, in particular, Father seemed to be in a rather sour mood, having come home late from work the previous day, poured himself glasses of beer, and woke up the next day still not quite over it. It was perhaps around 6 in the morning, the usual time for Alastor to wake up, and he came out his bedroom to the welcoming smell of his mother’s cooking from the kitchen and the fire crackling. Ma smiled at him when she noticed him, gesturing to the chair for him to sit, and he did, a smile spreading over his face. “Good morning, Ma,” he said, “You don’t always gotta wake up early for my birthdays, y’know,” he added, a sheepish look on his face.
“Well, look at you all grown now,” she chirped, “I’m gonna be cookin’ for my baby every birthday of his whether you like it or not, so quit your complainin’,” she said, a hand on her waist, but he could tell it held no malice. The words made him feel a warmth that perhaps only Mother could inspire in him. Alastor laughed, “Alright, alright, Mama. Do what you gotta do.”
It was then that Father intruded upon them, his voice making Alastor’s smile nearly disappear into a frown, but he contained himself. “You know damn well he can cook for his own self. You’re spoilin’ him too much, Marie,” he took a chair further from Alastor, scowling, “Did you at least cook me somethin’, or are you too busy teaching ‘im to be a sissy?”
“Hubert!” Ma gasped, her hands pausing for a second to turn around and look at him for a second, “Now, what’s kept you all worked up? It’s his birthday, he should at least get a home cooked meal, if not a cake. I’m makin’ something for both of you, calm down,” she huffed.
“Well you better have, or I married you for nothin’,” he groaned. Alastor’s hands under the desk tightened to a fist. He dug his nails into himself to keep a smile as he spoke, “Dad, you don’t gotta be so hard on Ma.”
“Now you shut your God damned mouth,” he barked out, earning a recoil from his mother. Alastor kept himself steady, though his smile disappeared. “I go soft on you for a couple of weeks and now you think you get to bump into me an’ your Ma’s conversation like this? I’ll let you know, young man, just ‘cuz you grown don’t mean you get to talk back.” his tone grew low and dangerous as he stared Alastor down.
“I am not.” He said, his tone losing its pleasant qualities as his nails dug deeper, rage starting to ignite in him. Just as there is a warmth only Ma could bring into his heart, there is a deep, burning fire that perhaps only Father could incite.
Father stood up from his seat, the chair dragging against the floor in a horrible squeak, “You think you get to talk to me like this?”
“Hubert, what’s gotten into you?” Ma cried, quickly turning off the fire and abandoning her cooking to sit Father back down, “He ain’t mean nothing like that and you know it.”
Father scoffed, “Sounded damn well like he did. I swear he needs a good beatin’, that kid, he’s been nothing but trouble since he was born …”
It was then that Alastor decided it was enough. He had absolutely no intention of forcing himself to stay when Father was clearly in one of his moods again. Ma had a way of dealing with him and an amount of patience that Alastor didn’t think he could ever understand. So he got up, smiling apologetically at his Ma, “I’ll just head out for now, maybe hunt a deer or two, and come back when Pa’s cooled down. Sorry, Ma, save a bite for me in the fridge, please.” he said, before quickly walking out the back door, ignoring Ma and Father calling after him.
He grabbed the rifle as he went, trying not to think about where he’d actually like to point the barrel towards, trying not to think about blood spilling out of a forehead and painting the walls a much more vibrant color.
Alastor took the familiar path down into the woods, the ones he had grown so accustomed to, where he could probably be dropped off into the middle of it and still know where to go. The damp morning fog felt comforting, and remnants of the night kept the summer heat to a more bearable level. There was a sort of buzz to the woods as it came to life along with his footsteps falling onto the ground, breaking twigs and leaves here and there. Eventually the woods thinned out more as he came closer to his true destination, his favorite spot — a bayou, sunlight starting to beam down through the fog as it cleared out, and Alastor stepped closer, realizing, then, that there was a person — a stranger.
Immediately he tensed up as the person, who he can now identify as a blond teenage boy whose skin was adorned by freckles, and looked only a bit younger than himself, looked over in alarm from the log he sat on, his hand going immediately to — is that a handgun? — before he blinked, identifying Alastor as well, and, deeming him no threat, relaxed his shoulders, though his hand still kept onto the holster.
Alastor chose not to mention any of that, why a boy younger than him may be allowed to wander alone with a gun, and how quickly he jumped to using it. He put on his best, most polite smile, and the most proper English he had grown accustomed to using when outside the house, “Hello, Sir! Are you also here for hunting? I don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”
The blond boy blinked at him, as if startled again, but then just smiled, though it was more rough around the edges than Alastor’s own. “Nah, I’m new around here, so I wanted ta check this place out. Tryna find some secret base of sorts, y’know?” He waved a hand up and gestured to Alastor, “Seems I’m outta luck though.”
Alastor laughed at that in a good natured way, “Why, I don’t see why we couldn’t share …” His voice dropped as he observed the boy closer, how he wore what seemed like a well made suit, a coat thrown over him with what looked to be fur around the shoulders, though he could not identify if it was real from this distance. And the handgun on him … It was clear to him that this boy, whoever he is, must be quite well off, and, seeing as Alastor’s own vest was second hand, a white man of his status may very well be offended by such a suggestion. He opened his mouth again, ready to correct himself, but the boy just laughed, “Ya right on that! It’d be boring havin’ the place to myself, anyway.”
He couldn’t help but stare at this strange boy, for a second not finding his words. The blond proceeded to raise an eyebrow, “What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not one ta be picky about my company, if that’s what yer worried about.”
Alastor relaxed, letting himself step closer, “That would be very kind of you, then.” He says, though he did not truly believe there was anything kind about basic decency that so many seemed to lack. “I’m Alastor. Alastor Lede. My Father owns the butcher shop, you see.”
“Ooh, I might’ve walked past yer shop, looked like real good stuff. Couldn’t go in ta see fer myself though. Name’s Andy,” he grinned, “Andy Caliendo.” He offered a handshake — to which Alastor hesitated, before stepping forward and taking his hand, shaking it firmly.
Andy’s hands were warm in contrast to Alastor’s own, and it was only then that Alastor became conscious of how his hands were sweaty, though if Andy noticed, he did not let it slip. He looked into his eyes and noted the green of spring, a habit from how Ma always made him memorize eye colors of people to make him look at them properly.
“Caliendo?” Alastor repeated. Andy pat the spot next to him invitingly and Alastor debated for only a bit before sitting down a couple inches away. He noted how Andy was taller even when sitting down. “Yeah,” Andy gave him a toothy grin, “Italian. We came from New York, if ya can’t tell by the accent.”
Alastor found his interest being piqued. He’d lived in New Orleans his whole life — sometimes he would travel around Louisiana when he could, but it was always just the same neighborhood where he lived. New York was a huge place and far, far away, giving Alastor mental imagery of the Statue of Liberty, of people bustling around the place. He mused that over for a second. “I see … Then what made you come here all the way from the cities, if I may ask? It doesn’t seem like there’s much to get from New Orleans, aside from these beautiful woods.” He commented, meaning it in a more lighthearted way. But Andy laughed again, making Alastor tense up slightly, though he tried not to show it.
He relaxed when Andy’s voice came through, “Well, I didn’t get a say in it, my Pops did. The — my family, we uh, moved ‘cuz of some business stuff … My Pops is a businessman, y’know. But it ain’t that bad here. I say it’s better ‘an New York. More fresh air and less loud, annoying traffic noises and rats everywhere.”
“You think so?” Alastor perked up a bit. He had a lot to say about the woods, if Andy were interested … But he didn’t inquire further. This was a stranger, after all, no matter how kind or how accepting he acted … “Well, yeah, stay a day in New York and you’ll see. There’s never quiet. Ya don’t get this sorta peace in New York.” Andy gestured to the bayou, the Sun now peeking through the fog, the surface of the waters glistening with its rays.
Alastor quieted, listening to the sounds, only songs of the early birds and the rustling of leaves to be heard around them as the morning fog started to clear. He took in a deep breath, cool air filling his lungs, and tried to imagine noises of the city in his head … of people talking all around, footsteps, cars, honks, noises … He shook the idea out of his head. “You’re right, I’m afraid …”
Andy blinked at him, like he’s waiting for him to continue. Sighing, Alastor went on, “I imagine it would be hard to find this anywhere else. Perhaps that’s why I’ve always loved this place. The woods aren’t exclusively mine, but I know it like the back of my hand. This bayou, in particular, was my secret base, I suppose … So you were quite right, actually,” he grinned, “You did find a secret base, just not necessarily one to yourself.”
“Woah,” Andy exclaimed, his eyes a little wide, “So ya sayin’ I hit the jackpot?”
Alastor cocked his head, a light smile on his face. “If you want to see it like that …”
“Dang, Ala,” Alastor’s eyebrow shot up at the nickname, but Andy just continued on with his toothy grin, “I was just goin’ around the place randomly, I wasn’t expecting to come upon ya place. My bad.” Andy leaned back, his arms crossed over behind his head, “D’ya always come this early ta hunt? It’s like, what, 7 in the mornin’?”
“No, but …” He tried not to grimace as he thought back to the earlier events this morning, as well as realizing how much better he feels now. “I felt like a change of pace. I’ll have to go soon, however, my Mother is waiting for me … It’s my birthday, so she cooked something for me.” He felt himself relax, a soft feeling coming to his chest as he spoke about his Ma.
“Ya birthday? Shi — crap, my bad,” Andy leaned a little closer. Alastor chose to ignore the language Andy almost used. “Happy birthday. How old ya turnin’?”
“Eighteen.”
“Oh, so you’re all grown now, huh?” The blond huffed and sat back, pouting a bit, “I’ve only turned sixteen this April. Your Ma always cook ya somethin’ for yer birthday?” He asked. Alastor nodded, “I’m very grateful for it.” Andy smiled, something about him looking softer, “That’s nice … Well, if ya gotta go, then feel free. Well,” He paused, that soft look turning into guilt. “One thing. If I see ya on the streets an’ I don’t say hi, don’t take it personally .. My Pops, he … It ain’t just you, it’s everyone. He doesn't trust people outside of our family. Including white folks, too,” he quickly added.
Alastor wasn’t unused to this. “Of course,” he nodded. “But I do have some time before I have to return … You mentioned you wanted to look around the place?” He asked, already regretting this, but Andy nodded quickly, his green eyes fixated on him. “I can show you around the woods, at the very least, if I can’t meet with you in public.”
“Fer real?” Andy’s eyes widened. “You’re too nice, Ala … Thanks, I’d appreciate it,” he rubbed the back of his head sheepishly.
Alastor smiled at him before hopping off the log. “Come along, then, I’ll show you my favorite spots.”
That marked their first meeting — under the sun beaming down gently, two footsteps and leaves crunching under their feet as the woods came to life and the fog cleared entirely. Two boys, 16 and freshly 18, walking through the trees, one pointing at spots and explaining in his smooth voice, the other listening intently, brimming with curiosity and asking questions that the shorter boy was happy to provide. The start to their friendship that had been kept under wraps as they met up at the bayou every few weeks, coming up with their own schedule, secret codes to indicate meetings, growing closer as summer came to an end, inviting autumn as leaves turned color and fell.
That was a much simpler time — and perhaps happier as well.
The fireplace crackled as Angel Dust threw himself across the couch closest to it, taking up the entire area and proceeding to give the others a smug look as they had no choice but to sit further away, though it didn’t seem like they minded much anyway. Angel had taken the couch almost like his own at this point. Similarly, he observed, glancing over at the empty, red winged-back armchair next to his couch, Alastor had his own chair that he sorta just … manifested? Some Overlord magic shit. Angel wasn’t about to think too deep into it.
Alastor had taken care of dinner that day as he usually did, and Angel was the first to finish, as always when Alastor made a meal. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to savor it — Hell, he would if he could! — it was more so that the food was too good and he couldn’t help but wolf it down, and if he stayed a second longer he might’ve asked for seconds, but with Valentino monitoring his figure he just can’t do that, as much as he’d love to. Also so that he could steal his favorite couch.
It was a very pleasant surprise to learn that Alastor had such talent in cooking, especially since they’ve all thought he was bloodthirsty, evil, and would certainly slip inedible ingredients in, which hasn’t happened. (Whether that’s thanks to Nifty insisting on watching him, Angel didn’t want to know). The skill level definitely rivaled his own, though Angel wasn’t ready to share this particular skill of his with the hotel yet. He loved cooking, don’t get him wrong, and he’d love to cook for the hotel, he just isn’t quite sure if this particular Radio Demon would take it well if everyone found his dishes to be even more appealing than his. Not that Angel gave a fuck, honestly. He grinned to himself at the imaginations — maybe one day when he’s ready for his second death he’ll try.
It was then that the click-clack of heels and soft buzz of radio static growing closer alerted him of Alastor walking over. He looked up from his day(night?)dreams and blinked at Alastor. Well, that’s new. Although Alastor had his own designated seat that he didn’t let anyone else (except, maybe, Nifty) sit in, he rarely came to sit by the fireplace. And he rarely seemed to finish his meals as quickly as well, preferring to eat slowly and elegantly in front of the other hotel guests. He nudged himself a bit closer, propping himself up at the arms of the couch, looking the Radio Demon over until his gaze dropped to the book in Alastor’s hands. Something about the cover seemed familiar as Alastor sat down and opened it, promptly ignoring Angel’s staring.
“Damn, Smiles, I didn’t know ya read,” Angel said, still staring at the cover. Alastor didn’t respond for a second, only radio static emitting from his presence, before he sighed, then, in a patronizing zone, said, “Why, my good fellow, I would have thought that is a given!” without even glancing at Angel.
Angel huffed, “What book is that?”
“Stray Birds.” Alastor replied, with his same never-changing smile and cheery tone, though Angel almost felt like something was beneath there when he said the book’s name. “A collection of poems by Rabindranath Tagore.”
“Ohhhh,” Angel said, feigning interest, something about the book sounding weirdly nostalgic. “So, like, what’s it about?” He asked. He wasn’t quite sure what gave him interest in asking, it’s not like he’s particularly interested in books … a sudden dull ache took over his chest as the vague, faint image of a man soft amber eyes came into his mind. He tried to shake it off and pretend nothing’s wrong. Alastor only eyed him, not saying anything about his sudden change in mood, “Why, I wasn’t aware you read, Angel!” he chirped, as if to mock what Angel asked earlier. Which, admittedly, fine, it was a dumb question.
“Uh, duh, of course I don’t,” Angel rolled his eyes, flipping over onto his back as he let the upper half of his body dangle off the couch dramatically, “But I’m bored to death around here, and Her Highness wants me ta lay off on the alcohol —” He sat back up, using both his sets of hands to air quote, “Somethin’ about how it’s ‘good for me’. Baby, I’m only here for free rent, but whatevah floats her boat. So,” He leaned over a bit closer, though not enough to intrude on Alastor’s personal space. “Ya gonna tell me or no?”
Alastor cocked his head and contemplated for a second before sighing with an eye roll, and to Angel’s surprise, actually explained rather than wave him off. “It’s about the beauty of life, dear Angel. Something I’m not sure if you would understand away from the substances you indulge in.”
At that, Angel bristled for a second, but then just deflated and let out a toothy grin. “Then you’ll be surprised, ‘cuz there’s a lot ya don’t know about me, baby.” The pet name slipped off his tongue in a force of habit and he watched Alastor’s ears flick as if he wanted to wince, but stayed put. He noted to himself not to call Alastor that again. “Can I read it with ya?”
The other demon shot him a glance, his smile growing wider. “I must make it clear to you, Angel, while I would not mind buddy-reading with someone, doing so over my shoulder is completely off limits!”
“I meaaan,” Angel grinned and batted his eyelashes, supporting his cheeks with both hands as he gave Alastor the most convincing puppy eyes he could manage, (maybe he really was bored out of his mind — who knows!) “You could always read aloud for me, riiight, Mr. Transatlantic Gentleman?”
He had completely expected Alastor to reject him, because obviously, why wouldn’t he? But he blinked and the light in his eyes may have grown a tad more genuine as he realized Alastor went quiet and was actually considering it. He saw how Alastor went still, then, looking away from Angel, he tried to hide the faint radio static in the background by announcing, “Why of course! I’ve always liked reading to an audience, it reminds me of the good ol’ days,” he sighed, almost longingly.
“Good ol’ days, huh? Ya read stories on broadcasts or what?” Angel asked, curious. Alastor waved him off. “Oh, no, of course not, what nonsense! No no, it was not on broadcast, though I believe you were asking to hear me read, not reminisce on the times Above, correct?” His red eyes locked onto Angel’s pink, a look and tone that said ‘it’s none of your business so shut your trap’, so Angel did, grabbing a pillow and cuddling up to it since obviously he had no other options. “M’kay, Spooks. I dunno what to expect, so, uh, can ya just read me your favorite part? Poem? Whatever?”
Angel studied his nails as a soft staticky sigh sounded near him, then the sound of pages turning slowly before finally pausing. He heard Alastor start, in a voice that sounded slightly more serious than his usual, uncannily upbeat tone. Alastor was undoubtedly a good reader, he had to admit, likely to do with his job as a radio host — and something about it all felt familiar and comforting.
“The smell of the wet earth in the rain rises like a great chant of praise from the voiceless multitude of the insignificant.”
Angel blinked, comprehending the words, then he frowned, “Surely that can’t be your actual favorite. In a book — uh, poem book — about beauty and life and all that jazz.”
“Whyever would it not be?” Alastor’s smile beamed down at Angel and suddenly he didn’t feel so comforted. He huffed, “Okay, tough guy, can ya give me somethin’ that isn’t all edgy sounding or do I gotta start doubting what you said about this bein’ all ‘ooooo beauty of life’?”
Alastor gave another eyeroll, but he obliged, flipping pages much faster than he did last time and easily finding what he looked for, only confirming Angel’s suspicions that it was absolutely not his favorite poem he had just read. Clearing his throat, Alastor started again.
“What language is thine, O sea?’
‘The language of eternal question.’
‘What language is thy answer, O sky?’
‘The language of eternal silence.’”
The spider mulled the words over, his face rested upon the pillow. A poem about the sea and sky and eternal unquenched curiosity. He mumbled, feeling Alastor’s gaze on him, “Feels like I’ve read this before somewhere.”
“Have you, now?” Alastor arched an eyebrow at him. Angel shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe when I was alive, or somethin’ … I already forgot it all though, since that’d be, what, 80 years ago?”
“80, you say?” Alastor sat up straighter, which Angel didn’t even know was possible. He jumped a little at the sudden movement, staring at the Radio Demon, finding that the other demon’s eyes were sudden fixed on him unmovingly. He shifted, trying to seem nonchalant, “Uh, yeah? I fell 80 years ago.”
Alastor opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, and Angel suddenly had the strongest urge to know what it was — but then he returned to his earlier position, the smile fixed on his face. “I see! Why, that means we fell around the same time — a shame I hadn’t seen you around before then, dear Angel Dust!”
‘What the fuck was that?’ was what Angel thought. But instead of saying or showing that, he purred and threw Alastor a wink, “Awh, really now? Upset ya didn’t get to me first?”
“Haha! No.” Of course came the unamused answer. It was then that the others joined them at the fireplace, finished with dinner. Charlie chatted on and on to Alastor about how good his cooking was, with Alastor smiling at her and, in the nicest way he could manage (which, to be fair, wasn’t that much), told her he was planning to read. Things went back to their usual rhythm as if nothing had happened, but Angel kept in mind the sudden shift in behavior and the way Alastor looked at him.
Because it’s either that he was going crazy or motherfucking Alastor of all people was looking at him with what looked almost like hope.