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The mushrooms are something that Alastor is used to.
They've been with him for so long. They itch as they grow from the inside of his throat; he peels them off his arms, opening scabs as he does. That they followed him into Hell is not a surprise. At this point, it is simply one more daily task; painful and disgusting but not unusual.
But Vox watches him peel a mushroom off his forearm with wide eyes.
“Who is it, Al?” he asks. Voice hopeful.
Alastor glares.
“No one. There never has been.”
He can tell Vox doesn’t believe him.