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“How do you feel?” Alastor fiddled with the glass in his hand, trying not to let the concern bleed into his voice and instead settle on his inner curiosity. Sickness does not exist in heaven and they haven’t been in Hell long enough to see sickness in sinners... but, it must be normal.

And if it isn’t...? Can angels catch sickness from lingering in hell for too long?

“I feel terrible.” Vincent’s screen curiously glitched, only returning to normal when he rubbed around his antennas. “Like... Like the flu, but much worse.”

Alastor remembers getting sick when he was alive. Medicine wasn’t common, but the herbal remedies his aunt made for him worked well enough to get him through the day. The tricky part is that those are earthly plants, they’re in hell, and Alastor hasn’t seen a single shop dedicated to medication since they fell. He knows they exist— he’s seen them on injured sinners— but he’s not sure where or how they’re obtaining it.

They’re both still so new to Hell. He knows nothing. Vincent is truly the one with all the answers, he’s got an affinity for gathering knowledge and gossip. It’s helpful — perhaps it can help now.

“Tell me where to get medicine.” He urged, forcing annoyance into his voice to mask the nervousness settling in his chest.

His faux TV sinner groaned, curling onto his side and nuzzling into his pillow. “We can’t. It’s in a different ring of hell.”

Who designed this dreadful place?! Alastor thought, pacing the floor. He didn’t mean it, but the frustration of not being able to help was getting to him. Think, think...

“I need air.” Vincent grumbled. When Alastor looked over, he realized that his sinner form was shed and the pitiful man was swaying in his full heavenly glory as he sat up. “It’s so hot in here.”

Alastor was by his side in a second, urging him onto his back and ignoring the flutter in his stomach at the physical closeness they were in. His hand rested on Vincent’s shoulder, keeping him pinned down while he pressed a palm into the burning heat of his forehead.

He tsked, annoyed at the burning sensation. “Stay down. You’re not meant to move in this state.”

“Huh... You’re cold.”

“You should sleep.”

“You should keep your hand there.”

“You need to sleep.”

Vincent’s fingers brushed over his own. “Your cold feels good...”

Alastor could feel his face burning up. He narrowed his eyes, but stayed still because it truly seemed like his subpar body heat was settling him. Vincent’s eyes blinked lazily, growing more sluggish each time they opened. 

Annoying creature...!

“Stop fighting it and sleep.” He bared his fangs in a vicious sneer, “We don’t have medicine, this apartment is full of useless junk food, and you need to rest.”

“Stay next to me.” The drowsy-deepness of Vincent’s voice sent a shameful shiver down Alastor’s spine. “Please?”

“Absolutely not–”

“I’m scared, Al.”

He shouldn’t feel anything for this man — he shouldn’t feel anything but disgust. This was a pathetic little inhabitant of Heaven who stupidly followed him down to Hell. He’s been an annoyance since he died and attached himself to Alastor’s side like gum to a shoe. His blatant need for approval is an inconvenience — almost as much as his obvious desire for romantic affection. It’s revolting.

And yet... there was a throb in his chest. He felt himself focus in on the tremor in Vincent’s hand from where they were connected.

Alastor... has always been terrible at leaving a wounded animal alone.

“I’m not climbing into your bed...” He warned, needing that semblance of distance. “I’ll pull over a chair and sit next to you.”

Vincent’s gold-flushed face seemed to glow brighter, no doubt flustered at this rare sight of pathetic mercy from him. “Okay...!”

Alastor did just that. He felt uncomfortable intruding into Vincent’s room so brazenly, even more uncomfortable with how tightly he held onto his hand or how the silly man was curling on his side facing in his direction. But, that discomfort seemed to fade and slip from the forefront of his mind the longer they took up each others space. Instead he began to feel an unfamiliar sort of tenderness.

This is an unnecessary feeling... He thought, the tension in his shoulders releasing once Vincent seemed to genuinely fall into slumber. ...I don’t think it’s a wise one, either...

He told himself when he decided to go to Hell that making friends was unwise. He told himself that all he cared about was finding his mother. But, here he is with Vincent Whittman — stranded in Hell with the only other singular person who can begin to understand how displaced he feels.

The only other divinely cursed amongst the hellishly blessed.

Alastor can admit that he would feel lonely if he arrived in Hell without Vincent. He would especially feel terribly lonely after the realization that his mother was... no more.

Vincent’s fingers squeezed around his hand, as if feeling the direction his thoughts were going and trying to ground him.

Even when you sleep, you’re insatiably persistent... He couldn’t help but genuinely smile. Alastor resting his chin on their clasped hands, resigning himself to staying up for the next few hours in this position until he either cramps up or falls asleep on his own.