Simper’s Hideaway

Every time the asshole had an issue with his laptop, he always, always used Vox’s personal one - seriously, he was gonna need to triple encrypt it at this point to keep him out - and managed to download a fucking nasty malware via some kind of porn site. By the time Vox had connected his own system to the device, it was already too late, and by the time he’d found the source, it had already been transferred to him. Part of him couldn’t be pissed at Valentino. Like, truly couldn’t. Valentino would just start cussing him out; How should I know what the fuck a computer virus looks like? What the hell is malware, anyway? On and on and on, until finally Vox would grow weary and just ban him from using any of his devices EVER again. 

A sigh ghosted past Vox’s lips, followed by a sniffle - the sound so thick, sodden and heavy that it nearly had his skin crawling. To know that he didn’t even have a nose, let alone sinuses to get swollen and yet he felt so unbearably full to the brim with congestion… It was disgusting.

He almost wanted to sneeze, if to have a brief moment where his head didn’t feel so full to bursting. Almost.

Maybe if he could call it one-and-done, but nooo. He could never sneeze just once. They came in bursts, itchy expulsions that seemed to tumble out on top of each other, so damned excited to finally be let loose. And they left Vox panting, sniveling and mortified as he tried to mop the fluid that seeped from his vents and lips. Fuck, it was so gross.

Groaning, he shifted onto his side and tugged the duvet tighter over his shoulders - he hadn’t left bed for a good few hours but fuck it. The day was a wash the moment he’d slept through his alarm. Velvette and Valentino (the virus-peddling-moth-fucker) could manage without him for one damn day. His eyes were close to shutting completely, once again allowing the haze of sleep to take over - until he felt it. Just there, right behind his eyes; an inkling of prickling irritation. He whined, squinting and uselessly screwing his expression up as though he did have a nose to wriggle and twitch. Please, just let me sleep for a minute…

As if infuriated at the mere idea that Vox wouldn’t allow himself the pleasure of sneezing, the sensation all but exploded, and a sharp hitch flew past his lips. “Fuhhhck m’be, plhhheease…!” Okay, maybe that was a little weird to be gasping out in bed - alone but, he simply didn’t care. In the moment, all Vox could do was gasp and sputter, a few more lewd-leaning sounds spilling past trembling lips before the television demon’s system couldn’t stand to have the intense irritation linger a moment longer. “heh’IISSCHHH’HIEW!” 

The first sneeze always managed to take him by surprise, if nothing else than because he was still stunned he could even sneeze so hard without a fucking nose. He cringed, feeling the pillowcase beneath his head grow a bit damp - ughhh, fucking gross - but he had all of two seconds to dwell on the mess factor before a shiver rippled down his spine. “hHHZZSCHH’hiew! hHHZZ’NGSHHh! Hehh!! Ehhh’IZZSCHH’OOoo! Unnghh… fu’huuugck…”

A pitiful whine trailed after the last exhausting sneeze. It felt like someone had just sucked whatever was left of his damned soul out of his ailing body. And the congestion somehow seemed worse, sluggishly dripping onto his already soiled pillowcase. It plugged his ears and made his head spin even while laying down. 

Despite how Vox wanted to immediately throw himself into the pits of hell itself, he settled on nuzzling deeper into his covers and tugging the comforter forcefully over his head. 

Alastor raised a hand to his forehead, running it through his sweat-dampened hair. His other hand braced him on the bathroom sink as he attempted to smooth out the tangled mess resulting from him tossing and turning all night. No matter how much he tried to sleep, he still woke up feeling exhausted. There was always something keeping him awake—a pounding headache, grating bouts of coughing, or now, a relentless fever. He struggled with his bow tie, hands shaking too much to hold it steady as he tied it. He still hadn’t gotten around to putting on his shoes or monocle yet. His reflection stared back at him, looking pale and flushed at the same time, ears refusing to stay pointed up.

It had been ten days since Alastor first noticed the symptoms. It was gradual, something he initially brushed off as a simple cold, something he could easily hide until it disappeared. He willed himself not to sneeze or cough around other people, wore makeup to hide his reddened nose and eye bags, adjusted the filter over his voice to hide how congested he sounded. Days passed, and the Overlord continued feeling worse until it was clear that this was something more severe.

His chest wasn’t healing; the gash was still clumsily stitched and bandaged, residual angelic magic still sapping his strength. It was like a virus, demanding all of his body’s energy to fight it and leaving him susceptible to other illnesses. It was bad enough now that he had no choice but to completely isolate himself, or else word would get out that the Radio Demon was vulnerable. Alastor’s grip on the sink tightened. He felt trapped.

If he could just make it downstairs long enough to restock his supply of painkillers and get some food—though he’d been feeling too sick to eat lately—then he could stay in his room the whole day. He got to work doing his makeup, covering up the red tinge burning across his cheeks. The powder he used started to irritate his sinuses, and he didn’t realize what a mistake using it was until it was too late. He sniffled repeatedly, avoiding rubbing his nose and taking off the foundation he’d just applied. There was a box of tissues next to the sink—he grabbed one as his breath hitched.

“Hh— Hih-IHHG’KZZH’huh!” He quickly wiped up the moisture that he felt dripping from his nostrils. “H-hiehk’TCHZHHH! H’KZZSHH-hue! Sndff! Hehh—Hehgk’ZZSH-shu!” So much for that idea. Alastor blew his nose, then hung his head with a static-filled groan, trembling. Every little movement painfully tugged at the stitches in his chest, every sneeze a sharp sting. He took a deep breath, triggering a different kind of itch that made him cough. That was what really lit his chest on fire, but he couldn’t stop. The pain made him want to scream, but the only sound that came from him was ragged, wheezing gasps.

Fuck, he couldn’t stop shaking.

Every nerve in his body felt too sensitive, strung too tightly, as if every new surge of pain might the one that breaks him. The burning sensation lingering in his chest felt suffocating. His reflection’s eyes watered, tears trailing down its face. He simultaneously didn’t want anyone to look at him and wished someone would find him. Either scenario, whether he was left alone or found out, filled his fever-dazed mind with a sense of dread that made him nauseous. Static started creeping into the edges of Alastor’s vision as a wave of dizziness briefly brought him back to his senses. He took the tissue box with him and sat in bed, hugging his knees. The tears kept spilling from him in broken sobs and sniffles, and all he could do was sit there, crumbling to pieces until he wore himself out.

Charlie had asked Angel Dust to keep an eye out for Alastor while she was busy dealing with new guests. He had to admit, the whole situation felt off. Sure, Alastor liked to go off and do his own thing, but it wasn’t like him to just… ignore his job. Angel decided to take a quick swing by his room, just in case he happened to be in there. He knocked on the door. “Hey, anyone in there? Y’know, Charlie’s been lookin’ for ya.”

On the other side, Alastor was dozing off until the sudden sound sent him spiraling back into panic. A new wave of tears welled up in his eyes, and he sniffled wetly, fighting back choked sobs. Suddenly, his breath stuttered, and any attempts to stay quiet disappeared as he buried his face in a tissue. “H-Hih’IIHGK-TZZHHUE!”

The sound was muffled through the door, but it was still audible. Angel didn’t really question the sneeze—he had been sounding a little under the weather lately. “I can hear ya in there. Can ya open the door?” He waited, but there was no response. The Radio Demon, of all people, going quiet was a very bad sign. “Look, if ya don’t give me a sign that you’re alright, I’m gettin’ Keekee. You’ve been actin’ weird for days.”

Alastor couldn’t bring himself to say anything. He grabbed a fresh tissue to blow his nose—being sick and crying left him a dripping, snotty mess. When the door creaked open and Angel peered inside, he was still in the same position, his head down and his arms wrapped around his legs. The spider sinner’s expression fell when he saw him. “Al? What’s goin’ on?” Before he even had a chance to speak, Alastor’s breath caught, throwing him into another fit of rough coughing. Once it finally subsided, he lifted his head, eyes wide, gasping for breath as one hand clutched at his chest. Something about the look of desperation in his eyes paired with the forced, wide smile, baring his teeth down to his black gums, made Angel’s stomach twist. He really couldn’t stop smiling, even if he wanted to, could he? “Hey, look at me,” he said, crouching down beside the bed. “Just breathe… that’s it… Now, can ya tell me what’s wrong?”

He blinked away the last of his tears and gave a thick sniffle. “I’b sick…” he croaked, congestion smothering his voice so much he couldn’t even pronounce his words properly.

As if that wasn’t obvious. “How long has it been since ya started feelin’ bad?”

He barely knew what day it was. He stared down at nothing for a moment—it was so hard to think. The last few days were a hazy blur. “Albost two weeks?”

Angel blinked. He opened his mouth to yell at him, to call him stupid for trying to hide it, but didn’t, because of course he did. He was the hyper-independent Radio Demon who didn’t need anyone. Still, the fact that he had nearly died fighting Adam just a few weeks ago, and was now putting his health at risk because he didn’t want to ask for help, was frustrating. It was too soon for him to get hurt again. The sinner stood up, running a hand through his hair and looking around the room for anything useful. “Have you been takin’ anythin’ for this?”

The other demon weakly shook his head. “I rad out…”

That was when he noticed that the bathroom door was open. On the counter was an empty pill bottle and an old glass thermometer. Angel went and grabbed the thermometer, then held it out to him. “Put this in your mouth real quick.” Alastor complied, staring off into space while they waited. “Let me take a look,”  the other said. His brow furrowed as he checked the measurement. “Shit, you’re on fire. I’ll go look for some medicine for ya, alright?

Just as he began to turn away, he felt a clammy hand on his arm, not quite grabbing him. “Stay here,” the Overlord muttered. “For a little while. And—snf!—dond’t tell adyone.”

Normally, Angel would be thrilled to have a walking enigma like him want to spend time with him, but this wasn’t how he thought it would happen. It wasn’t a request, it was a command—really, it was a plea buried under the guise of control. Alastor had decided he didn’t want to be alone with his overwhelming emotions.

“Alright, just for a bit. Can ya lay down for me?” Angel pulled the covers over him. His eyelids started drooping as soon as he laid down, though he was still shivering and looked quite uncomfortable. The other sinner went back into the bathroom, taking a washcloth hanging on a towel rack and running it under cold water. He spotted a plastic cup sitting on the counter and filled it with water. He returned to Alastor, setting the cup on the nightstand and placing the cloth over his sweaty forehead. Sitting at the edge of the bed, he left plenty of space for the other man to move closer. Not how I thought I’d end up in the Radio Demon’s bed, he thought. Sitting in silence felt awkward, but Angel wasn’t sure what else to do. He didn’t want to accidentally upset him and cause him to reject any further help. He slowly leaned against the pillows, on his side.

The deer demon shifted around for a moment, settling close to him. Angel’s fur gave him some extra warmth, and Alastor had his head right up against the white tufts sticking out of the heart-shaped cutout in his shirt. He was comfortable there, but the fur brushing against his face proved to be quite irritating—mainly for his nose. It tickled the edges of his sensitive nostrils in just the wrong way, making him take in a sharp breath as he pulled away. His hand flew up to cover his nose and mouth just in time.

“Hh— Hihg’TCHZZ’huh—Tzzzsh-hhu! Sdrff—” He kept his hand cupped over his face, feeling around for the box of tissues. Pulling out a few, he cleaned up the mess coating his palm and dripping from his nose. For all his sneezing and nose blowing, it wasn’t relieving any of the pressure in his sinuses. His head fell back with a repressed groan.

“Why don’t ya change into somethin’ more comfortable?” Angel Dust eyed the dress clothes he was wearing. They didn’t look very comfortable to sleep in. He would’ve offered to help him change, and he was still willing to if need be, but didn’t think he’d be too thrilled about the idea of another person undressing him.

“Go to the dresser, top right drawer.” It felt wrong to hear Alastor sound so defeated. In the drawer was a set of red pinstripe pajamas that looked unsurprisingly old-fashioned. He brought them back and set them down on the bed. “Dond’t watch.” He turned around while Alastor shakily sat up and began taking off his coat. He took off his bow tie and fumbled with the buttons of his shirt. Part way through, he started coughing. He cleared his throat and tried to bite back the rest, but his body refused to stop until the congestion in his chest cleared up. Angel grimaced at the sound, but the pitiful whines that escaped him as he caught his breath were even worse.

He couldn’t just ignore him when he was in pain. He turned to him. “You doin’ okay—“ His eyes widened, locked on the bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. “Wait, when did you get hurt?” he snapped, more harsh than he meant to be. “You’ve been hidin’ this from us, too? What if it’s, like, infected?” It was too soon after the Extermination. They had all been through enough, so why did he have to make everything more difficult?

His anger withered away as Alastor teetered on the verge of crying again. He barely registered what Angel said, too dazed to fully understand why he wanted to cry. It just felt like the only thing he could do.