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The Hazbin Hotel, as one might have noticed from the inquisitive eyes adorning every wall, was a sentient building. She developed over the years a very nasty habit of trussing things together which did not belong, and so her demonic magic coursed through a labyrinth of disparate architecture forsaken to Hell. A bathroom door on the second story of an cottage inn, for instance, opened upon the dining hall of a grand, ornate cruise ship, a little known mop closet on the fifth floor connected to the rooftop pool, and an entire evergreen forest ecosystem functioned within the AC unit. Guests of all walks of death searched for quiet refuge here, but demons “finding themselves” sometimes became so lost that they never found the hotel lobby again. The employees of the Hazbin, however, learned to navigate effortlessly down her British alleys and roller coaster hallways. Every so often, one might stumble upon a hidden gem-- such as a little-known theatre hall tucked underneath a mile of twisted Victorian staircases.
There, in the disquiet dining auditorium beyond a dusty stage, the hotel’s concierge and bar manager rendezvoused. The concierge’s radio rattled out jazz with all the fidelity of a recorded phonograph, though the bouncing melodies and brass whistles frayed and dissipated in the theatre's vastness; like memories fading on the boundary between dreams and nightmares. Candlelight flickered between them in time to the slow billowing of their lungs, which often paused for the intake of alcohol: deep wines, light brandies, and the occasional crisp champagne to clear the palette.
The concierge had a face sharp as a knife, with hair and eyes to suggest that knife regularly dripped with blood. That menacing appearance, the bartender mused, was undercut by the tall, fluffy cervid ears adorning the man’s head. The barhand had no room to judge, however; his own mammalian skin had erupted with a jubilee of feathers and fur upon his death. He had a cattish face, paws, and tail to match his contorted feline spine which also sported a set of enormous red and gold wings. He kept a cheat’s playing card under a tattered top hat, and a bowtie to accessorize his tuxedo coloring, but otherwise let his raggedy fur hide any delicacies. The concierge dressed to the nines in a faded red suit, letting no skin show beyond his face, and finished his look with a wide yellowed smile. He flicked one gloved hand, and the music quietened to a whisper.
“Husker,” his voice rang high with only the slightest rasp, “What would it take for you to trust me again?”
The concierge smiled innocently as Husk raised his large, beautiful, cattish eyes to glower their golden hues into his not-quite-human ones.
“Alastor,” he said with a voice rumbling low as a lion’s growl, “I ain’t never trusting you again, asshole”
“You won’t never?” Alastor smiled, “So you will, then, eventually.”
Husk sneered at him and threw back the dregs of his ninth glass. At his companion’s will, a new spirit pooled up from the bottom of the glass. The way to a sphinx's heart might well be through the liver, Alastor reckoned.
“My darling,” the half-deer feigned some hurt, “have I not been accommodating?”
Husk swirled the wine in his glass and avoided his gaze. Is this Alastor’s way of apologizing?
“Do I not,” he began again, “turn a blind eye to that pesky whore often leaving our room when I return from work?”
So, that’s your game today, Husk glared furiously into his glass.
“No one asked you to work two jobs,” Husk muttered.
“And no one asked you to work two relationships, but here we are,” Alastor chuckled. “Though, I forgive you, of course,” he added.
Husk gripped the stem of his glass and focused on his heartbeat pulsing through the constricted veins. Alastor forgave him, so he’s the one expected to apologize. Alastor dealt the cards, however, and Husk always folded.
“I’m... sorry,” he managed.
“I’ve already forgiven you, kitten. There’s no need to apologize if you’re just going to do it again, anyway,” Alastor half shrugged his shoulders and turned to nursing his own glass.
Husk felt tears of frustration prick at his vision as he watched Alastor ignore him. Alastor never apologized because Alastor never did anything wrong. Alastor did watch him, though, from the corner of his eye. He loved when his lover cried, because that presented an opportunity to demonstrate how much Husk needed him, and it didn’t particularly matter who had caused those tears to begin with.
“Do you love that whore?” Alasor asked, just to twist the knife.
Husk paused and grunted affirmatively. It was a small lie to get back at Alastor.
“And you’d love him even if I tore off all his limbs?” Alastor was nonchalant.
Husk recoiled in shock. “Yes,” he proclaimed.
“All of his limbs?” Alastor reiterated slowly.
“O-oh,” Husk felt stumped, and suddenly afraid of the hooker’s safety.
“I thought so,” Alastor smiled mockingly, “and that’s why you’re both still alive.”
“Is that why you invited me here? To threaten me?” Husk's posture had become defensive.
Alastor laughed, “Not at all! I only wish to spend more time together, so that you might not feel the need to carry on with a prostitute.”
“Fine,” Husk pushed his chair out from the table and rose clumsily, “Com’ere and bend over, then maybe I won’t have to.”
“Sit down, Husk,” Alastor commanded. Husk did, sheepishly and embarrassed.
They sat drinking in silence for a while.
“I’m sorry,” Husk said again.
“I’m over it,” Alastor replied dismissively.
Great. Husk felt sick.
“Will this be another repeat of last time?” Alastor asked.
Husk’s whisker’s twitched with fear and confusion.
“If you were a little nicer to me, Husker, I wouldn’t get so upset.”
No, no, it’s your fucking fault why I can’t be nice to you, Husk swallowed the lump in his throat. Husk blinked, and let his tears soak into his fur.
Alastor gave a deep sigh, as though he had been greatly offended.
“When you cry at times like these, I can’t help but feel a little... manipulated.”
No… Alastor rose from his seat and climbed over the table, knocking their glasses to the floor.
“Though, I suppose you're always an emotional drunk,”
No, no... Alastor reached Husk and swung his legs around to fall into Husk’s lap.
“Don’t worry,” he stroked Husk’s wet cheeks. “I’ll never leave you, darling,” he kissed Husk’s whiskered muzzle. “You can’t strangle me to death like your ex wife,” he laughed.
Husk brought his claws around Alastor’s throat.
“I can try,” he threatened.
And just like that, the trap snapped shut.
“Fine,” Alastor slapped Husk’s hands away and slid out of his lap, “If that's what you want, to be alone and terrible forever. No one else wants you, no one else needs you,” he breathed shakily from excitement, which otherwise seemed deeply emotional, “and nobody will ever love you.”
“Alastor,” Husk sighed miserably.
“Do you think anyone else would put up with this abuse?” Alastor rubbed his forehead as though Husk has given him a headache, and began walking away. He staggered briefly to be sure that Husk would follow. Which he did, dutifully.
“This.. this isn’t as bad as what you do…” Husk pleaded.
“How dare you try to turn this around on me.” Alastor spun on his heels, “You’ve been punishing me all week! The whore is one thing, but not looking at or speaking to me is intolerable!”
Husk winced, but his certainty of what happened gave way to the shocking confusion that he, himself, was the abuser. “I’ve not been trying to punish you,” he begged.
“So? What?” Alastor turned away again, “You just hate me for no reason?”
Actually, I have plenty of reasons, The rational part of Husk’s brain retorted, but in panic he replied instead, “I don’t hate you, I like you... when you’re being nice to me.”
Alastor stopped and Husk walked into him.
“I suppose my jokes can go a bit far,” he feigned some modesty. Alastor looked up and wrapped his arms around the beast. “I like you too, darling... even when you’re horrible.”
“Thank you, I’m sorry, I'll be better,” Husk whispered as he rested his muzzle on the crown of Alastor’s head.
They stayed together in that embrace. Somewhere behind the rafters, a rope gave way and a velvet show curtain crashed to the floor. The Hazbin Hotel had a habit of binding disparate things together, after all.